


Cold Are the Winter Months

by nikifforov



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abduction, Blood and Injury, Car Chases, Character Death, Dark Past, Drinking, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Human Trafficking, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Mafia Victor Nikiforov, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Racist Language, Russian Mafia, Sexist Language, Smoking, Street Racing, Torture, Underage Drinking, Violence, Weapons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2018-10-29 13:33:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10855017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikifforov/pseuds/nikifforov
Summary: St. Petersburg is cold and the family that owns it even colder. Their empire is made up of dirty money and bloodstained knives, built on the shoulders of lesser men. Winter is their kingdom, but summer always comes, and ice always melts.





	1. Prologue (OLD FIC)

Beyond the walls surrounding the garden, St. Petersburg lies in solemn silence. The skies are grey and cold, the thick snowflakes swirling through the air are rapidly covering the capital’s rooftops in a thick blanket of white. The distant sound of cars is further muffled by the snow engulfing the city, any moonlight blocked out by thick clouds.

Alone on the balcony, the glass in his hand is half empty. The sweet sparkling cider, designed to lighten the mood and loosen tongue and purse of St. Petersburg's richest, has no effect on him. Behind him the ballroom of the mansion is alight and alive, a steady steam of music floating through the small gap in the doors, drifting out into the night. Large chandeliers adorned with crystals bathe the room in a warm glow in which there is dancing and laughter, the clinking of glasses, jewellery flashing.

The top button of his dress shirt is open, suit jacket hanging loosely over narrow shoulders, a black bow tie hanging crooked against the base of his pale neck.

“Sir?

Viktor doesn’t move from his position of leaning against the balcony railing, the fingers of his free hand absentmindedly tracing slow patterns into the dark marble. Inside, the music continues, a slow melody suited for slow dance and courteous flirting.

“What?”

He doesn’t remember the name of his newest bodyguard. The boy, barely a man, stands behind him, looking solemn in a dark suit. His short cropped hair and boring face are hardly worth remembering, his accent almost too thick to understand. At least he isn’t nervous. There’s nothing Viktor hates more than nervosity in supposed professionals.

“Your presence has been requested, Sir.”

“Who?”

“Lord Nikulaenkov, Sir. He wishes to bid you a good night. He says he doesn’t feel well.”

“Leaving the party so soon.. What a shame.”

He straightens up and sets down the glass, inhaling a lungful of the cold midnight air. Below, the garden stretches out into the distance. In the darkness he can barely make out the familiar outline of trees and bushes, an occasional lantern lighting up the narrow path leading towards the iron gate. With the sudden arrival of the bitter cold, most plants have less than a few days to live. It’s a melancholic cycle, to live and to die over and over for all eternity.

“Let us not keep him waiting.”

Viktor pauses only to do up his shirt and fix the bow tie, brushing a strand of silver hair out of his vision before rejoining the warmth of the party indoors. His bodyguard follows suit, attached to Viktor like a shadow.

The man in question, Lord Nikulaenkov, is waiting for them near the bottom of the winding marble staircase leading from the foyer to the upper floors of the mansion. A white handkerchief is clutched in his meaty palm as he dabs at the sweat beading on his forehead, his suit jacket discarded in an effort to cool down. His glass, empty, lies knocked over on the stairs. Two more men stand nearby, silent as statues, weapons disguised beneath suits as they wait for orders with stony expressions.

“My Lord Nikulaenkov, you don’t look too well. Perhaps a glass of water, and a lie down on a bed?”

There’s little warmth in the smile Viktor offers the elderly man as he vigorously shakes his head, clumsy fingers uselessly trying to loosen the silk tie around his throat. His small black beady eyes roam across Viktor’s face in search of signs of irritation or displeasure, but he’s met with naught but a stony smile and unblinking blue eyes.

“N-no, no. Спасибо.”

“Some fresh air, then? Mila?”

Heels click against the marble floor as she saunters over from the corner of the room, red hair done up in an elaborate knot. A silver necklace gleams against her neck, matching rings adorning her slender fingers. She’s smiling widely as she steps up beside them, a long stemmed glass clutched in one hand, a small red purse in the other.

There’s an almost palpable shift in the atmosphere, a sudden temperature drop. The warmth of the party seems worlds away as Georgi directs a few stragglers back towards the ballroom, the sound of music and chatter cut off abruptly as he closes the double doors behind them. 

Viktor’s smile is ice compared to Mila as he continues to watch Nikulaenkov, the latter suddenly seeming to have trouble breathing.

“дорогая, escort our guest outside for a lungful of fresh air. Make sure to show him the Lilies in the greenhouse. You’ll enjoy them, Nikulaenkov. It’s Kazakhstan’s national flower after all, is it not?”

Nikulaenkov doesn’t stand a chance against the surprisingly strong slender fingers wrapped around his bicep. Mila tugs him forwards, away from the safety of the ball and out into the darkness of the night. Viktor stands to watch them disappear, moving only after Georgi reappears to follow the two into the cold, the outline of a gun visible in his gloved hand.

Hushed whispers and tentative smiles greet Viktor as he returns to the ballroom. The music is loud enough to mask the gunshot, enrapturing enough to ensure no one will notice Nikulaenkov’s sudden disappearance. His wife and son stand a little to the side of the orchestra, enjoying the last few moments of blissful unawareness.

As in a garden, weeds must be cut, to ensure only flowers can grow.


	2. Heavy is the Heart (OLD FIC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ба́ры деру́тся -- у холо́пов чубы́ треща́т.  
> \- When the rich make war it's the poor that die.

The small restaurant is almost empty when Viktor finally arrives, weary after spending so many hours on the road. Even with plush leather seats and substantial leg space, the back of his car always starts to feel cramped if he’s forced to sit still over a long period of time. His suit is wrinkled, he observes with distaste, silver hair dishevelled after hours of obsessively running his fingers through it. He has a lot on his mind, too much to add the irrelevant burden of worrying about his appearance, but it’s Yakov he’s meeting and Viktor knows he’s less likely to be met with resistance if he presents a flawless mien.

Red velvet lines the walls of the room the waitress guides him through, the dark colour looking like blood in the soft light. The table Yakov’s waiting at is nestled into the far corner, the one closest to the emergency exit. Years of learning how to get to know a room before spending more than ten seconds in it tell him that strategically, it’s the best seat in the house. Slow jazz drips from the speakers, the music just loud enough to drown out the sound of conversation wafting over from the rest of the occupied tables.

A formidable presence wherever he goes, Yakov is comfortably seated in one of the leather chairs, sitting like a King upon his throne. Just like so many other cities and places strewn across Russia and beyond, Pulkovo International Airport is merely a fraction of the size of the vast kingdom Yakov Feltsman commands. Involved in most illegal happenings inside and in correlation with Russia, the Pakhan of the Bratva has an entire criminal empire at his feet. Contacts within the Politsiya ensure their comings and goings do so unhindered, Russian spies working within Families across Asia and parts of Europe making sure no potential move against Yakov goes undetected. A spider sitting in the middle of an elaborately spun web, only a fool would dismiss the elderly man as anything less than dangerous.

A little sour at the lack of welcoming words Viktor takes a seat across from Yakov, not bothering to take off his coat or gloves. Meetings like these in public are a rare affair, the danger of the wrong ears listening in too high a risk. With his hat on the chair beside him, shoulder length grey hair neatly falling, Yakov looks little more than an old gentleman leisurely enjoying his soup for lunch. He doesn’t spare Viktor even a second's glance, gruffly shaking his head as the waitress attempts to take the new guests order.

“господин. I have news. Important news concerning the issue of the stolen information. I think you will be pleased."

Without any indication that he’s heard Viktor speak, Yakov continues to eat until the bowl is empty. Beyond the restaurant walls the airport is alive with weekend travellers, thrumming with the sound of voices and thousands of pairs of feet. Saturday evenings bring out hoards of tourists and businessmen, most ambling around the departure lounge while those in suits walk at a brisk pace, polished shoes squeaking on the linoleum floors.

Viktor likes airports, likes the smell of them, the atmosphere that surrounds large travel hubs. Despite his vigorous fear of flying, watching the planes roll down the runway before take-off has always been something he’s enjoyed watching. There’s much to envy about the way the machines take to the sky. Regardless of the high position he holds within the Bratva, such freedom has always seemed and remained unobtainable.

Apparently he’s taking too long to elaborate because Yakov pointedly raps his knuckles against the table, impassive gaze finally fixed on his nephew’s face. There’s little family resemblance between them. Viktor knows his mother was adopted, knows Yakov cared little for her until she died and left him with a two year old child, Yakov himself without a son after his wife’s early death. Although reluctant, he had agreed to raise his nephew, and with no one to interfere, had started grooming him to be Yakov’s replacement as Pakhan. Even with the birth of Yakov’s first son, Yuri, several years after, he continued to train Viktor. Yuri, born out of an affair rather than love, would never have a real claim to his father’s empire.

“Speak, Vitya. I am busy."

“It was Nikulaenkov.”

Expecting to see surprise or anger cross Yakov’s face, he’s left sorely disappointed. His uncle merely blinks, silently waiting for him to continue. Whatever reaction he has to a betrayal of such a scale, he’s keeping it well hidden.

“Mila found one of the briefcases with stolen documents. It was in a hotel room in Petropavl. He checked in with his own name. Careless. The briefcase was almost too easy to find."

“Where is the other one?”

Mila had only been able to obtain one of the two briefcases, she’d grudgingly explained to him over the phone the night before. The second might already have left Russia, she speculated, sounding less upset than perhaps she should. Viktor had sourly reminded her that she’d sworn to find both and she’d hung up with the promise to keep looking.

“We have not found it yet.”

“Maybe I should ask Yuri to find it.”

It’s a blatant insult and a stab at his ego, but Viktor takes it in stride. He’s alone and severely under armed in comparison to three of Yakov’s guards standing a little to the side. Instead of replying he lifts a sleek black briefcase onto the table, wordlessly sliding it towards his uncle. Immediately one of the guards steps forwards, running his fingers across the leather exterior in search of disguised weapons. It’s another insult, one Viktor finds harder to stomach, but he matches Yakov’s stony silence as they watch the man unlock and open the briefcase.

The entire journey from city centre to airport, the briefcase on the seat beside him, he’d been tempted to take a look. Annoyingly vague about what exactly had been stolen, Yakov had refused to give him any information whatsoever. Fingers itching and curiosity peaked, Viktor had been glad to see the airport up ahead, his self preservation skills just about stronger than his need to know.

“Is this all she found?”

“Yes. But we will continue looking, I promise.”

He knows Yakov expects nothing less from his heir, the older man’s expression telling him as much.

“Do you know what he’s told his clients about it?”

“No. But I will personally make sure that all possible buyers and handlers he might have had contact with are dealt with. Permanently, of course.”

“Yes, you will. Make no mistake, Vitya. If you fail, you will be the first to be dealt with in return. I do not tolerate failure. Not from you."

Viktor rises as Yakov does, patiently waiting for him to put on his coat and hat. Despite remaining secretive about the briefcases’ contents, Yakov’s made the urgency of the situation well known by sending all his best men out to retrieve it.

“It will be dealt with.”

Yakov doesn’t dignify him with a response, expression gruff. With the guards accompanying him sticking to his heels like shadows, briefcase clutched firmly in Yakov’s hand, they move to leave the restaurant in complete silence.

Feeling as though a great weight’s been lifted off his shoulders, only to be replaced with an even heavier one, Viktor goes to sit at the bar instead. He orders a glass of Kyas, grudgingly paying for Yakov’s meal after the waitress brings him the bill. He knows he should already be in his car and en-route to St. Petersburg to continue the search, but sitting at the bar at that moment, the hopelessness of the entire situation hits him head-on. Mila tracking down Nikulaenkov’s hotel had been pure luck. The ex-general had been less than cooperative during their interrogation of him at a party held not long ago. He’d died soon after, Mila’s impatience getting the better of her. With their only lead unhelpfully dead, Viktor’s left with appallingly little to aid him in his search for the second briefcase.

Finishing the Kyas he pays and leaves, phone already in hand. The drive to Petropavl is a long and tedious one, but the prospect of being on the receiving end of Yakov’s utmost displeasure is all the motivation Mila needs before she’s readying a car to pick him up.

At the bar, half hidden in the shadows, a Japanese man with messy dark hair and glasses watches him leave.

-

“Aren’t you a pretty one, благообразный..”

The man’s hand wanders another inch up Yuuri’s thigh, the movement obscured by the table they’re sitting at. The feeling of strange fingers touching him is revolting but he forces himself to endure it, as pliant as possible while faking a small sound of content. Around them the club is full of people, voices loud. Above, music blares from the speakers, bass heavy and loud. On the dance floor an uncoordinated mass of people move and grind. Yuuri doesn’t understand the lyrics, but most of the time listening to voices sing in a foreign language is a nice distraction. Beside him the man shifts his weight, inching closer to Yuuri while effectively trapping him against the wall. The booth they’re in is already small and he has to fight the urge to run.

“Спасибо.”

“So pale...I like them pale. Only your eyes, they are the wrong colour. Such a shame I cannot change them. Then you would be perfect."

In contradiction to the way his heart is racing, Yuuri’s smile is playful, the sort brought forth by a drink or two too many. The groping is a necessary evil and he allows it simply because the man has something he wants. Quietly telling himself over and over that he’s in control, Yuuri laughs giddily, the heat and drinks helping him along the way. The alcohol that’s making Yuuri’s head swim serves also to loosen his companion’s tongue, the pouch of white powder Yuuri had poured into his glass moments earlier giving him another helpful nudge on his path to intoxication.

Thick smoke from hundreds of cigarettes sits in the air and Yuuri’s eyes water around his contact lenses. They’ve been at the club for over two hours and he hates the way he stinks of smoke all over, sweat running down the back of his neck. His hair, skilfully slicked back to show off his face and the pale column of his throat is sticky and mussed up from where his client’s been running his fingers through it. He feels displayed, as an artifact in a museum might, shown off for all to see. Even with the months of practice he’s never quite gotten used to being worn like an exquisite piece of jewellery.

“What colour would you like them to be?” He all but purrs, making sure to strongly pronounce his Japanese accent. They converse in English, Yuuri’s Russian severely lacking, but it’s not the first time he’s been hired by this particular customer and he knows just how to entice him. Only a week ago had he turned down a request to give a group of American tourists a lap dance in traditional Japanese clothing. Even with all the shame and guilt he lugs around, dragging what few precious and innocent memories he still has of his home through the mud isn’t something he’s willing to do. Yuuri tries hard not imagine what his parents would think of him whoring himself out to strangers. He tells himself that they’ll never find out, that bringing home Mari will be enough. He knows they won’t be able to stay at the Onsen even after he does find her, that the probability that they’ll spend the rest of their lives running is a high one. What methods he’d used to get through in Russia won’t be something he’ll go into grand detail about.

“Perhaps...Green. Or maybe blue, like the ice in Vorkuta. I would like to see ice blue eyes looking back up at me when I fuck you.”

Yuuri bitterly thinks of the blue eyes currently staring at the inside of his pocket, and of the man they belong to.

“Blue is a nice colour.” He mumbles, trying to distract himself by focusing on the music.

“It is!” The man, Alexei, help himself to the rest of his drink. He’s not much older than Yuuri, but there are lines around his eyes and scars across his knuckles. He has the unmistakable posture of a soldier. “It is especially a nice colour when it is on skin. I will leave bruises all over you, like a map of the world. A very pretty map of the world, right here.”

The first few times Yuuri had gone out with a client, it had taken all his internal willpower not to turn and run. He’d shivered and passed it off as being too drunk, which often led to the client deciding they’d had more than enough to drink and coaxing him into the backseat of a sleek Mercedes. He’s better at hiding it now, better at forcing himself to look like he wants it. Like he wants anything and everything Alexei can give him, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. But the club they’re in is loud and vulgar and Alexei’s touches are becoming more than Yuuri thinks he can handle.

Despite his revulsion, he experiences a strange sense of pride for what he’s accomplished. Even now they’re sitting and waiting for one of Alexei’s business partners to show up, the fact that Yuuri’s allowed to stay and doesn’t have to wait in a hotel room a sign of the progress he’s making. He tells himself it’s just a job, that getting into bed with the most dangerous men in Russia is no different than any other type of employment. It helps a little until his hand brushes over the gun at Alexei’s hip and he has to pretend not to notice it’s there.

“I hate this place,” a new voice says and the man it belongs to takes a seat across from them, uninvited. At first Yuuri thinks Alexei’s going to send him away, but he makes no sound of protest as the newcomer orders himself a drink. He’s tall, dark hair done up in a stiff and uncomfortable looking way. In his right hand he holds a small paper bag. His left is under the table, never straying too far from his weapon. “Why must we come here always?”

“It is good to see you too, Georgi. You are late, as usual. Maybe I should complain to your boss.” Alexei lowers his voice into a poor imitation of Georgi's accent, his smile sharp. “Mr. Nikiforov, your employees are unfashionably late and always complain. You should fire them.”

“He would shoot you for wasting his time,” comes the dry response. From what Yuuri’s heard about the man, Georgi probably isn’t far off. Known for his notoriously inconsistent moods and skill with a knife, Viktor Nikiforov is exactly the sort of type Yuuri knows he should be avoiding. And yet here he is, flirting his way into the inner circle of the Russian Bratva, his sights set on Viktor himself. He’s only seen him once in person, the rest of their encounters limited to Yuuri gazing at the various pictures and newspaper clips he’s collected. He’d been too far away to see much, but the simple ease and confidence with which Viktor had held himself struck a nerve in Yuuri. Someone like him, riddled with insecurities and crushing self-doubt, trying to smooth talk his way into the bed of Russia’s most notorious? It’s a joke of poor taste.

Their conversation strays from Russian and sticks to English, much to Yuuri’s relief. He presses himself up against Alexei’s side in a manner he hopes is flirtatious, head tilted, eyes half closed and Alexei indulges him, happily pulling him closer. Georgi poorly disguises his irritation and Yuuri’s unwarranted presence during their business deal.

“Who is this?”

“Eh? This is Kojiro, my new friend. Say hello, ягненок.”

Only once had Yuuri been stupid enough to use his real name, a mistake he isn’t keen on repeating. There’s little chance of Georgi wasting his time trying to locate the rest of Yuuri’s family, unimportant as he is, but the sound of Yuuri’s name dripping out of a lust ridden client’s mouth had been too much to bear. Georgi still doesn’t look convinced but the arm around Yuuri’s waist is a clear message; He’s staying right where he is.

“господин.”

“Be polite, Georgi, he does not speak Russian. What do you have for me this time? I hope it is worth it to come all the way here. I could be spending my time doing something far more pleasurable right now. Looking at your face is not pleasing to me.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you. And do not pretend you have anything better to do. When Viktor calls you, you come, this is how it is. Here. The first part of your payment. A thank you gift from the Pakhan. He knows you have very specific taste.”

He slides the brown paper bag across the table then leans back in his chair, tentatively sipping the drink. With his free hand, Alexei grabs the bag and opens it. Inside, nestled in a bed of bright orange rose petals, is a severed finger. Yuuri almost gags, hastily averting his gaze. Alexei seems delighted, going as far as reaching into the bag to touch the cold joint.

“So beautiful... It will be good in my exhibition. Whose was it?"

“Not important. You are sick,” Georgi murmurs dryly, his gaze wandering across the gathered crowd. He has blue eyes with dark shadows brought forth by too many sleepless nights smudged beneath them. Maybe in another life, in a different job, a different situation - he’d look friendly.

“I am only artist,” Alexei declares after safely stowing the paper bag in the pocket of his coat. He leans over, pressing a small kiss to Yuuri’s temple. His breath stinks of alcohol and smoke, the grip around Yuuri’s waist mercifully loosening further and further the more he drinks. “And I paint on many different canvases.”

“Whatever. You have your payment, it’s time we talk.”

“Very well.”

Both of them rise, Alexei slightly unsteady on his feet. Georgi’s suit is pristine and his manner unfazed. He looks sorely out of place in the middle of a sweat drenched, sex heavy club. Yuuri stands as well, heart racing. He knows the club serves as an inconspicuous rendezvous point for a vast array of people, several completely sound- and bulletproof, and most importantly private rooms set up to be used in the back. When he tries to squeeze out of the booth to follow Alexei, an arm blocks his way. 

“Not you, whore.”

“But-“

“Georgi, he is with me,” Alexei repeats, looking suddenly far less drunk than Yuuri would have liked. He seems calm, but his voice leaves little room for negotiation. “He comes with us.”

“I do not trust him. I want to search him.”

“Of course! Here, in front of all these people yes? Maybe some of them would like to watch you run your filthy hands all over another man.”

The taunting works surprisingly well. Georgi grunts something inaudible before stepping away from the table. Together the three of them weave their way through the crowd which seems to part at the sight of the two Russian men. Yuuri hurries along after them, mouth dry, hands shaking. It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to anyone in the inner circle. Alexei, as violent and crude as he is, is only the key to unlocking yet another door.

The corridor they make for lies hidden behind a thick red curtain manned by two guards. One look at Georgi and the curtain opens, allowing them to pass. Beyond, the corridor is empty. Dark mahogany walls lined with ugly lampshades and adorned with pictures that look like they should be in a museum greet them. Six separate doors are set into the walls, each made of metal with a keypad fixed in the centre. Once inside there’s only one way out, and Yuuri has little hope of learning the code should the worst come to pass. He’s trapped until Alexei or Georgi decide to leave, a thought that doesn’t sit well with him.

Alexei’s already working at the keypad on the third door when Georgi motions for Yuuri to hold out his arms. He makes quick business of searching the Japanese man for hidden weapons, gloved hands expertly running across all the places a gun might fit. It’s uncomfortable and stiff and Yuuri doesn’t move a muscle. Were it anyone else he might have rolled his lips, teased with a small smile or even strip of skin. But Georgi touching him feels very much like a lion running its claws over a slab of meat to make sure it’s dead.

Eventually satisfied that Yuuri really is only an overpriced escort and not a secret spy out for his life Georgi moves back and motions for him to step into the room. With a loud clang he closes the door behind them, the noise carrying a certain note of finality. Inside, the room looks much like the VIP sitting area of the club. Black leather sofas and chairs stand neatly arranged in a circle around a low coffee table. The walls are bare, the carpet worn. In the corner there’s a bar and small fridge, several bottles of liquor lined up and ready to be consumed. Alexei’s already on the task of filling three glasses, whistling a merry tune while he adds ice and lemon slices.

There’s no music, no chatter of a crowd and no laughter. Next to Alexei’s whistling and Georgi making himself comfortable in one of the chairs, they’re surrounded by deeply unsettling silence. Stalling, Yuuri looks around the room before sitting down at the far end of the sofa. His mind is racing with the possibilities of all the things that could go wrong, palms sweaty as he wipes them on his pants.

“So!” Alexei booms, setting the glasses down on the table. The sofa dips as he takes a seat beside Yuuri, his hand automatically coming to rest upon his thigh. If Georgi minds he doesn’t say anything, simply reaching out to take his glass.

“We have business to discuss.”

This time when Georgi responds in Russian Alexei doesn’t correct him, quietly replying in the same language. Beside him, Yuuri struggles to understand what few words and snippets he can pick up. Having flimsily tried to teach himself Russian during his first month in St. Petersburg he understands a little, but it’s still far less than he’d like or makes him comfortable.

“… stolen..”

“dead...people.. Feltsman..”

The mention of the name has Yuuri perking up, scooting a little closer to Alexei in an attempt to hear more. He knows the name better than he’d like to. The walls of his shabby little one-bedroom flat are covered in newspaper clippings related to Yakov Feltsman. Few have his face, even fewer have any substantial information on the man, but all have his name.

_Feltsman._

Yuuri’s almost certain the Feltsman they’re now discussing is the one he’s been looking for. Notorious in all of Russia, known all too well in countries like Japan and China, he's the head of an empire with no interest in falling. Only Yuuri plans to kick away one of the pillars, intends to kick and kick again until the group begins to crumble, collapsing in on itself at his touch. He plans to be the last one standing, watching as the entire organisation turns to rubble under his gaze. It’s a satisfying thought. Out of all the clients he’s sidled up to, always silently listening, prodding, and poking for a way in, Alexei’s by far been the most fruitful.

Yuuri’s so deeply lost in thought that it takes him a while to realise the conversation’s switched back to English. Inhaling deeply he forces himself to relax, suddenly worried Alexei’s noticed the way Yuuri’s muscles are tense under his touch. Picking up his glass he downs half of it in one go, biting off the corner of an ice cube to let melt on his tongue. Whatever business the Russians came to discuss is clearly over, both of them wearing expressions of varying degrees of satisfaction.

“How much do you think Nikiforov will pay me, when I bring him the head of these bastards? Does he want the rest of the body too?”

“He wants them dead. What you do with the remains is up to you.” Georgi sounds revolted at the suggestion that Viktor would want the dead bodies anywhere near him. “Just do it without showing anyone.”

“You are no fun!”

“Whatever. You’ll get enough money to rent as many boys as you can fit into your bed, I am sure.”

“Maybe I will buy a bigger bed.”

“Da, keep it to yourself. What is wrong with that one?”

Yuuri is acutely aware of Georgi’s eyes on him, watching, listening, thinking. He tries to sit up straight after realising he’s half slumped against Alexei’s shoulder but his limbs feel sluggish, arms like lead as he tries to lift them. Immediately panics, the room starting to spin in circles around him. Alexei’s voice is too loud to bear and the lights are too bright, burning his eyes even after he closes them.

“He is tired. I like them best when they are too tired to fight back.”

“This is exactly why-“

He doesn't hear the rest of the sentence. Like a marionette whose strings have been cut Yuuri slumps sideways, ice cold shivers shaking his entire body. The room is still spinning violently when Georgi mutters something in Russian and it’s the last thing he hears before he finally passes out.

The inside of the hotel suite he wakes up in the next morning is unfamiliar. All his previous meetings with Alexei or other customers have been well hidden from the public. A blow job in the back of a car with tinted windows, another on an abandoned building site in the middle of the night. His throat is cracked and dry as he sits up, disorientated, and aching all over. Directly above him a ceiling fan rotates, the quiet whirring the only sound to be heard. The bed he’s on is far softer than anything he’s used to, the sheet covering him light and silky. Balking at the sight of his clothes discarded on the floor, Yuuri allows himself several more seconds of rest before moving. Fear grips his stomach while he dresses, the events of the night before hazy. His mind is sluggish, body exhausted as he strains to remember.

Alexei talking to someone, pouring them drinks. Laughter, the feeling of a hand on his thigh, the cold ice on his tongue. The realisation hits him in the stomach like a freight train, all air leaving his lungs as he gasps out a muffled cry. He’d been too careless, too trusting. Alexei would have had plenty of opportunities to slip something into his drink, watching leisurely as Yuuri drank himself into unconsciousness.

It takes all his strength to finally stand up. Nausea wells up in his stomach at the sight of the bruises on his wrists. There’s dried blood under his fingernails, bite marks sunken deep into his palm. A sharp stab of pain shoots through his spine with each step he takes towards the bathroom, leaning against the wall and whatever furniture he can reach for support. Once in front of the mirror the sight of his reflection almost drives him back down to his knees.

Large, distinctively hand shaped bruises of deep blue and purple stand out against the pale of his skin, curling around his neck as if though someone had tried to strangle him. Another bruise covers his left temple, the pain of touching it making him dizzy. His hair is unkempt and sweaty, the dark rings under his eyes giving him a ghoulish appearance in the bright neon light.

Yuuri doesn’t stay to shower or clean himself up, terrified of what might happen should Alexei return and find him naked and vulnerable. The suite is still empty when he steps out of the bathroom, the crumpled bedsheets and piece of paper lying on the table the only signs of recent human inhabitation. Still shaky on his aching legs, Yuuri wastes little time looking around. His shoes are waiting for him behind the door, a thick wad of cash tucked between them. Sliding into his coat he picks up the piece of paper and stuffs it into his pocket before leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> отвратительный - Disgusting  
> господин - Sir/Mr.  
> благообразный - Handsome/pretty


	3. Of Dreamers And Dead Men (OLD FIC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> В тихом омуте черти водятся  
> \- Still waters run deep

“You look so good, my little lamb. So beautiful, so perfect, my most prized possession. I never want to let you go.”

Yuuri doesn’t want to be there, spread out naked across the bed, doesn’t want to have to endure the feeling of Alexei’s wandering hands all over him, touching him in places that make Yuuri want to scream. It’s degrading and humiliating, nauseating to the point where he’s glad his stomach’s empty for fear of throwing up. They’re in Alexei’s private home, the apartment is everything Yuuri expected. Big and luxurious, filled with designer furniture more suited to be looked at than used, walls covered in paintings that belong in museums and artifacts to match. It’s barely been two days since he’d woken up at the hotel with drugs still in his system, battered and bruised after a night of sex he can’t even remember. With the way Alexei is looking at him now, hungry eyes and greedy smile, Yuuri’s not sure he even wants to know what transpired.

“Never let me go..” Yuuri murmurs, the silk sheets soft to the touch. The pet name only furthers his discomfort but he holds still, the smile on his lips stiff and unnatural. It doesn’t matter either way. Alexei wants him for his small stature and his skin’s talent at bruising easily, not his willingness or complacency. Even without Yuuri’s exaggerated moans and displays of over the top sensitivity, Alexei takes his time ravishing a body with a mind that will never want him.

“You are so quiet today, my little Kojiro,” Alexei complains, his hands splayed against Yuuri’s stomach. “Do you not like the paintings I did on you? You look so beautiful with them. They are like a mark, showing that you belong to me and only me.”

The bruises around Yuuri’s neck are impossible to miss, dark blue handprints that are sore to the touch. The thick scarf he’d tied around his neck to hide them lies abandoned on the floor. It was the first piece of clothing Alexei had removed the moment Yuuri entered his home, eyes lighting up at the sight of the marks he’d left.

“I’m sorry, I-“

“Shh, my little lamb. It must hurt for you to talk. Be silent and let me enjoy you. Today you are all mine.”

Lips parting around a sound Yuuri wishes he didn’t know how to make he lets his head fall back against the pile of pillows, eyes squeezed shut tight. Barely over the threshold and Alexei had grabbed his wrists, coaxing him out of his clothes and into the bedroom without much preamble. His mouth runs hot across Yuuri’s skin, each kiss burning. Alexei’s hands and lips take him apart so very easily, his body reacting traitorously even as his mind screams in resistance. Yuuri doesn’t feel embarrassed of his body, not anymore, not when he knows how effective a tool it is against men like the Russian busy licking red hot stripes along the curve of his inner thigh. He’s not as lean as he wishes, stomach still too pudgy, thighs wide and soft. But even despite his own insecurities, Alexei worships his body to his utmost content.

“I am so proud of you, little lamb,” Alexei continues, voice muffled against Yuuri’s thigh. His blond hair is dishevelled, clothes in a messy heap on the living room floor. “You were so good to me last night, so very good, Kojiro. So soft and still, almost like you were dead. I like it when you do not move, let me take you apart nice and slow. You like it too, do you not?”

Yuuri nods. He remembers the sawed off finger in the paper bag Georgi had given him, mildly wondering if Alexei had attempted to murder him before sex. Lying still for Alexei is by far the easiest thing he’s had to do, but there’s something incredibly unsettling about the way Alexei stares at him. Not trusting his voice not to quiver Yuuri remains quiet, only breaking the silence with a low moan after Alexei finally deems it the right time to pay attention to Yuuri’s half hard cock. Warm breath ghosts over his skin and he feels his face heat up, shivering despite himself.

“So good, so obedient. I want to take you again tonight, Kojiro, and the night after that, and the night after that. I have enough money to buy your whole life and to have you stay here with me forever. You want that too, don’t you? I can see the way you always want more, the way you keep coming back to me. I own you, now and forever.”

Yuuri can think of nothing worse, but forever turns out to be relatively short-lived.

Outside a series of loud bangs and the unmistakeable sound of gunshots interrupt the silence and before either of them can react further than look up in surprise, the door to the bedroom flies open. Three figures step through the door, faces hidden away behind ski-masks. There’s the metallic click of a gun and two weapons are pointed directly at Alexei and Yuuri. Above him, Alexei goes very still, mouth hanging open in surprise for several moments before he regains his composure.

“Охуе́ть?!”

With barely enough time to disentangle himself from Alexei Yuuri all but screams as one of the figures approaches and yanks him off the bed, disposing of him in the corner where he’s left to hastily get dressed, cowering against the wall. After that they pay little attention to him and Alexei is forced to his knees beside the bed, both weapons still trained at his head while the third person moves to stand directly in front of him.

Yuuri covers his mouth to stop himself from making any further noise, eyes frantically darting between the group and the bedroom door. They’re on the second floor of the building, too high up to jump even with the snow. If he can get past the intruders and out the door he has a clear shot at the stairwell leading back downstairs. There had been four armed guards lounging at the bottom of the stairs after he’d arrived earlier that day, one of them thoroughly checking him for weapons before allowing him up to see Alexei. Then he remembers the gunshots and his blood runs cold. Even if he makes it past the door there’s little solid furniture to hide behind, his unprotected back an easy target for bullets. He briefly considers crawling under the bed but he’s already been seen, vulnerable without a weapon.

Alexei and the third gunman seem to be in deep conversation once Yuuri gives up trying to look for an escape route. They’re cleverly cornered in the bedroom, the only exit blocked. Even naked and on his knees, Alexei doesn’t look afraid, his posture and voice radiating confident authority. The man shakes his head, clearly displeased at Alexei’s tone, and removes the mask in one swift movement. Alexei balks and goes silent, shrinking into a small pathetic ball right in front of Yuuri’s eyes.

It’s Viktor Nikiforov, hair dishevelled, giddy smile on his lips. His two companions follow suit, masks dropping to the floor with a resounding thud. Yuuri recognises Georgi, unsmiling, the third a woman he’s never seen before. Short cropped red hair falls to her shoulders, her lips curled up in an elegant and coy little smirk while she holds her gun to Alexei’s temple. They look beautiful, the three of them standing there, with elegant dark clothes and sleek metal guns.

He can’t help it. He lets out a small whimper the moment he sees silver hair and Viktor turns his head, attention caught. If he’s surprised to see a strange Japanese man cowering on the floor, he doesn’t show it. Instead he looks almost delighted, eyes lighting up.

“Well, hello. Look, Georgi, Mila.” He starts in heavily accented English, enthusiastically gesturing at Yuuri’s form. “We have an audience tonight.”

Neither one of his two companions share his excitement. Mila looks unfazed while Georgi narrows his eyes in recognition. Unlike at the club he looks like he’s right where he belongs, like the gun in his hand is meant to be there just as he’s meant to be at Viktor’s side, an extension of his arm and who he is.  

“I know him,” Georgi grumbles, focusing his attention back on Alexei. “He is just another whore. I will dispose of him later.”

Yuuri feels his heart drop, the severity of his situation hitting him full force. He’s worked so hard to get close to Viktor, but it was never supposed to happen like this. Before he can even open his mouth to begin begging them to spare him, Viktor speaks up again, Alexei and whatever crimes he’s committed momentarily forgotten.

“No, Georgi. Let him speak. Do you work for this man? It would be such a shame if you did.. You have a pretty face. Did Alexei give you those bruises? I should kill him just for that. Would you like that? What is your name, boy?”

Despite everything Yuuri bristles. Viktor looks barely older than twenty, his youthful face clashing with the violence of the situation. There’s an air of elegance to him that neither Georgi nor Mila seem to possess, effortless grace, the sort a model might work years to perfect. But Viktor looks and is every part the future and heir of the Russian Bratva, his life tailored perfectly to the role. He looks older than in the picture Yuuri keeps under his pillow, the one he’s so very familiar with, but his eyes still have the same enigmatic gleam to them. He’s dangerous, wild, and Yuuri is completely and absolutely at his mercy.

“N-No, God, no. I don’t! I don’t work for him, I-I promise. I-I swear. I don’t know what he does, I have no idea about anything!”

“What is your name?”

“K-Kojiro.”

“Kojiro..” Viktor repeats, the name sounding strange coming from his mouth. Yuuri shrinks further against the wall under his stare, heart beating rapidly in his chest. His mouth is dry with fear, hands shaking, but Viktor looks completely at ease, comfortable with himself and his surroundings no matter where he is. “Why are you here, Kojiro? Do you know who I am?”

"N-No!" He lies. “I-I was just.. I can leave! I swear. I-I have no idea who you are, who any of you are. Please, I won’t talk. I’ll forget Georgi’s name, I’ll forget all about this. Please. I won’t talk. I promise.”

“I told you, he is nothing but a blubbering whore,” Georgi interrupts, pushing Alexei back down onto his knees when the man starts reaching for a pillow to cover himself with. “I will deal with him after we are finished. He cannot talk much if he is dead.”

"Hm.” Comes the reply, Viktor’s searching gaze lingering on Yuuri another fraction of a second before he refocuses his attention on Alexei. Always with a flair for dramatics, so Yuuri’s been told, Viktor continues the conversation in English. He seems hardly worried about there being a witness to their crime, probably confident enough that Georgi will swiftly make good on his promise of efficiently disposing of Yuuri when they’re done. A small part of him can’t help but wonder if Viktor is actually _enjoying_ his presence, the presence of an audience to woo with his skill and talent. And talented he is.

“So, Alexei,” he begins, taking a seat at the edge of the bed for good measure. He sets the gun down on the mattress beside him, his cutting edge smile an invitation for Alexei to even _think about_ it. “It has been too long since I saw you. How many years, now? Three? Four? As I see you have not changed.”

Alexei scowls. He straightens up as best he can, undeterred by Mila’s warning cough. “Not long enough, Nikiforov. What are you doing here? I am busy and you are not welcome. If I find out your pets have harmed my men, I-“

Viktor holds up a gloved hand to silence him. “Don’t speak. You have been such a good friend to our family for such a long time. Never quite perfect, of course, as flawed an individual as anyone. But I would never have expected you to betray us, after everything Yakov has done for you. Ah. Silence. Now you listen.”

Alexei’s mouth closes again, defeated. Little remains of the self-assured, strutting soldier Yuuri had met only weeks earlier. Viktor’s presence seems to be crushing him, stripping away any and all ego or pride he has left. Despite his more advanced age, Alexei seems almost harmless beside Viktor.

“Are you listening now?”

“да.”

“In English, for our guest.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Viktor claps his hands together once, the noise making Yuuri jump. “You know why I am here, I know you do. I am not going to ask you why you did it, because I know that too. You want money, you were bored, greedy always for more. You are after all so insufferable that you even have to pay someone to let them fuck you. Was he good, Kojiro? Was it worth the money he gave you, holding still for him? I can’t imagine it was.”

A second passes and then he’s crouching in front of Yuuri, his fingers lifting Yuuri’s chin and their gazes meet. He’s close enough for Yuuri to smell the faintest tinge of Sandalwood, for Yuuri to see the way his eyes shine bright.

“Or maybe,” Viktor continues, a gloved finger slowly tracing the outline of Yuuri’s lower lip. “Maybe.. You made him scream? Is that the way it went? Did he let you make a mess of him? Was it worth every penny? I hope it was.. But then again, men like him usually disappoint. Maybe you should ask for a refund.”

Alexei grunts something inaudible and Viktor straightens up again, glancing down at him. He looks as if though he’s enjoying himself, not unlike a cat playing with a mouse before it strikes the final deadly blow.

“What was that, Alexei? Don’t tell me you let him have his way with you.”

“Never.”

“At least that. Where did you find this one? Most whores nowadays come armed. They come armed with a gun, press it to your throat before taking all your money and leaving. Such a pity he has not done so, it would have saved me the effort of coming for you. Are you ready to confess your crimes to me, Alexei Kuznetsov? Or do you need some convincing?”

Mila steps forwards and it’s clear she’s the one to usually do the convincing. Alexei doesn’t need much. She barely has time to pull a knife out of its sheath before he caves, raising his hands in surrender.

“Wait, wait. There is no need. I will talk. I can tell you everything I know, anything at all. I will tell you.”

Viktor nods in encouragement and Alexei takes a deep breath, clearly having decided that betraying whomever he’s working for is a far less dangerous feat that angering Viktor.

“Nikulaenkov. It was him. It was his idea, he is the one who started. He was angry at his dismissal from the army, angry because your uncle did nothing to help him when he could have. Anger makes men do terrible things. You of all people should know that.”

“Nikulaenkov was dishonourably discharged years ago. Why now, all of a sudden? What changed?”

Alexei looks a little surprised then laughs. “This has been going on for four years. You never knew, of course, you were never supposed to find out. He is good at it. He offered me all the money and power I wanted and I said yes. I am good at this too, better than I am at being your bastard uncle’s pet dog. Nikulaenkov offered me the right things and I took them. But now, it seems, you have something I want more, so I am helping you.”

Viktor’s smile has long since evaporated, leaving behind no trace of his previous amusement.

“Who is his buyer?”

“A man in Moscow, I think. I do not know where he takes what Nikulaenkov gives him, but I am sure he was a filthy Kazakhstani. Sometimes Nikulaenkov goes to Petropavl himself, if the information he is selling is important enough. I think there, it is a different man. But in the end, it all goes to him.”

“Give me his name.”

“I only know his initials. A. O. That is how he signed the letters he sent."

“What else do you know?”

“Nothing, but I want protection. Nikulaenkov will kill me if he finds out-“

It’s the last thing he ever says, the sound of the gunshot still ringing in Yuuri’s ears as Alexei crumples, eyes torn open and a bullet lodged in his heart. Blood seeps from the wound, colouring the carpet dark red. Annoyed, Viktor turns to face Georgi who’s slowly lowering his gun.

“I was not finished with him, Georgi. How is he going to tell me what I want to know with a bullet in his gut?”

“He told us only things we already know. Nikulaenkov is dead, I killed him myself. He was in Petropavl days before I shot him. The man we want is in Moscow. What more information do you need? I will make a call, we will find him, he will pay with his life.”

“And if we do not find him?”

“Then we are all dead and it does not matter who shot Kuznetsov.”

Yuuri loses it. With a barely disguised whimper he launches himself away from the wall and dives for the bedroom door, fingers clumsily trying to grab ahold of the frame to pull himself through. He stumbles over Alexei’s clothes on the floor but then he’s out and in the living room, full fledged panic kicking his senses into overdrive. Footsteps sound behind him but he doesn’t stop to look, skidding left and right to avoid bullets and reach the front door. Someone curses loudly in Russian and Yuuri’s heart almost stops at the sudden hand on his shoulder. He can see what’s left of the door up ahead, splintered wood strewn across the floor. Adrenaline coursing through his veins he shoves the hand away and lurches forwards with renewed vigour.

“Wait!”

Too late does he see the dead body lying in front of the door, blood pooling around the man’s head. His foot catches and he doesn’t have time to steady himself before he’s falling, head smashing against the wooden stairs. A sharp pain shoots through his right leg and for the second time in three days, as his body likes broken and bruised at the bottom of the staircase, the world around him goes black.

-

Bloodstains, Viktor decides, are a nightmare. The clothes from that night's excursion are in a pile on the ground, damaged beyond repair, he’s conceded. Even his hands are still red, dried blood crusting under his fingernails. After setting fire to the apartment they’d packed Kojiro into the back of his car, Viktor’s jacket bundled up and pressed against his forehead to stem the bleeding, and returned to the mansion on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. They’d taken him directly to a private doctor, and the man had pronounced him a lucky bastard for even surviving the fall. He might experience memory loss, Viktor had been informed, headaches and disorientation as well, but he’d pull through. That night, Viktor had insisted they settle him down in his own personal bedroom.

He looks unimaginably small and fragile, curled up in the sheets like something wounded and broken. It’s the second time Viktor’s seen him, and he remembers the first quite clearly. It had been relatively one-sided, granted, but the Japanese had left quite an impression on him. Just standing beside Alexei- close but not quite close enough for people to frown, he’d looked more like a jewel being shown off to the world than anything else. Even then Viktor had been positively entranced. Alexei had whisked him off before Viktor had gotten the chance to approach, but the memory of the stranger had lasted him deep into the night.

Viktor doesn't consider himself a religious man and he believes in fate less than most, but having that very same stranger so close by his side, close enough to touch, sends a multitude of pleasant thoughts and ideas through his mind. Blocking out Mina and Georgi’s hushed complaining about bringing a random stranger into their home, he dreads to think what Yakov or Yuri will say, he’s gone as far as sacrificing his own bed to insure their guest’s comfort. The strong pain medication Kojiro’s on seem to be the main reason of the hazy state he’s been stuck in for what seems like ages, but every now and then he’ll open his eyes, voice a hoarse whisper when he calls out for people Viktor has no idea who they are.

It’s the third night and Viktor’s perched in an armchair beside the bed, unenthusiastically reading through a stolen police report. He’d called the authorities from a burner phone after they’d left Alexei’s home, the fire erasing all their traces. It’s impossible to track the crime back to him, Yakov’s connections and reputation enough to keep the police away even if some smart Detective makes the connection, but it’s a necessary evil of the job. The report is boring and void of anything that might endanger the organisation. Alexei’s body had burnt to a crisp in the flames, rendering him unrecognisable along with the four guards they’d encountered. The coroner did find the bullet, but that’s as far as the clues lead. Yakov’s yet to be seen reaction to their unplanned midnight expedition is a greater cause of concern.

Throwing the file down onto the floor he leans back, stretching out his arms. A glance to his watch shows him he’s been sitting for over two and a half hours, his attention split between studying the printed words and the man unconscious in his bed. A small groan catches his attention and he looks up, blue eyes meeting brown.

“W-Who..” The man croaks, to out of it to form a full sentence. Already the bandage around his head needs changing and there are dark rings under his eyes, his skin pale and clammy.

“Rest,” Viktor replies in a gentle tone, shifting his weight to lean forwards with a reassuring little smile. “Rest, Kojiro. You need to recover your strength. You had a bad fall. Do you remember?”

“No.. No. Y-Yuuri…” comes the whispered reply. “My name..”

He passes out again soon after, lulled back to sleep by the strength of Codeine. Viktor doesn’t realise he’s still leaning forwards and staring until there’s a knock at the door and he turns around. Georgi still looks irritated at their new guests presence but he has the good sense to keep his doubts to himself. Noticing the file discarded on the floor he moves to pick it up, ignoring the Japanese man completely.

“Is he still asleep, then?”

“Yes, it was a bad fall. He wakes up sometimes, calls out for people I assume are his family, then goes back to sleep.”

“Is this a good idea, Viktor?” Georgi asks after a while, looking out the window with his back turned to the bed. Viktor can tell it’s costing him great amounts of strength to keep the disdain from his voice. “You do not know anything about him. For all we know, he could have been working with Alexei. You only know his name, is that not reason enough to be cautious? Kuznetsov said the leak started four years ago. We do not know how many people joined him in this madness.”

“His name isn’t Kojiro,” Viktor interrupts. “It’s Yuuri. Such a coincidence, don’t you think? Yuri won’t be pleased at all. At least they don’t look the same. One of them will have to change their name, you know how forgetful I am. Do you think they'll mind if I call them Yuri-One and Yuri-Two?"

“You want him to stay.” It’s less a question than a statement. “So he was not even using his real name. I am not surprised, he is just a dirty whore after all. You should let me take care of him, properly. He has seen too much. If he is working for Alexei, keeping him here is a very stupid thing to do. We could be playing right into his hands, sheltering him while he smuggles information out from under our noses. We still do not know the name of the Kazakhstani. Anyone you come into contact with might be working with him.”

“Georgi, I think-“

“I know what you are thinking, Viktor. I am telling you it is a bad idea. How starved for affection are you if you bring a whore home with you? If it’s a fuck you need, Mila-“

_“Enough.”_

There’s a resounding finality to Viktor’s tone and Georgi falls silent immediately, gritting his teeth to hold back whatever else he was going to say. Viktor turns back to gaze at Yuuri, a strange twinge in his heart. He wants to reach out, to brush the stray strand of hair out of Yuuri’s face, to touch his cheek and soothe the pain. Behind him Georgi makes a noncommittal sound. It’s clear he can see the longing on Viktor’s face, and even clearer what he thinks of it.

“He stays with me,” Viktor speaks up after a while, tone leaving no room for negotiation. “When he wakes up he will tell us what he knows. He is probably harmless. Look at him. It takes guts to steal from Yakov and live to tell the tale. He almost passed out at the sight of Alexei’s snivelling.”

“Yakov will not approve of this, Viktor. He wants answers and the second briefcase. And we have not even yet told him that this operation has been going on for years right under his nose, nor that Alexei is now dead. He will be furious.”

“When has Yakov ever approved of anything? We will find the briefcase and I will kill everyone who thought they could get away with this.”

“What if the whore was involved as well?”

"Let that be my problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> да - Yes  
> Охуе́ть?! - What the fuck?! (loose translation)


	4. Before the Storm (OLD FIC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Аво́сь да как-нибу́дь до добра́ не доведу́т.  
> \- Draw not your bow till your arrow is fixed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit longer than I planned, but the next updates will be more frequent! Thank you for all your kind comments, I read and appreciate every single one. Also if you see any mistakes, my bad, feel free to point them out and I'll correct them!

“You disobeyed a direct order, Vitya.” Yakov’s voice is deep, hoarse from years of expensive cigarettes and yelling orders. “You were reckless, childish. Now, thanks to your insolence, the people we are hunting have disappeared once again, and we are back at the very beginning. What did I tell you?”

“Don’t do anything stupid..” Viktor murmurs, gaze downcast where he’s kneeling on the lavish rug spread across the floor of Yakov’s office, humiliation and shame burning on his cheeks.

“And what do you think I call going after Kuznetsov all by yourself, as you did?”

“Stupid.”

Yakov inhales deeply, fingers thrumming against the top of his desk. Viktor can feel his uncle’s piercing stare, one not unlike his own, and he makes sure to keep his eyes fixed on the fraying edges of the carpet. Everyone knows Yakov takes little pleasure in having to discipline his subordinates, Viktor least of all. Not because it saddens him to inflict pain upon others; The disappointment of having someone dare go against his orders is far greater.

“Yes. Stupid. Irresponsible. Tell me, Vitya, what is the punishment for disobeying my direct orders?”

Viktor hesitates at that, daring to look up with a heavy heart. His hair is filthy and tangled, smeared blood and dirt covering his face. One of his eyes is swollen, a dark purple bruise forming where Yakov’s fist had connected with his cheek. All confidence that his uncle would let him off with a warning and a few beatings, flies out the window. A low murmur goes through the room and the onlookers of the spectacle, meaningful glances being exchanged left and right. Viktor has no doubt that Yakov’s men are less worried about his men and more concerned as to who’ll get the chance to succeed the Pakhan should Viktor die.

“Well?” Yakov grumbles, meeting Viktor’s gaze unfazed. There’s no twitch around the corner of his lips, no fond exasperation in his eyes.

“Uncle..”

“I asked you a question, Viktor. I demand an answer.”

“Death.”

Yakov nods in silent approval, leaning back in his office chair. To Viktor’s left Georgi tenses visibly, fingers itching to curl around the handle of the gun Viktor knows he carries everywhere with him. Even with Georgi’s unquestionable loyalty, they’re vastly outnumbered. Drawing a weapon now would bring only a quick death to both of them. In the end it’s one of Yakov’s men to speak up, voice caring from somewhere near the back of the packed room.

“He can’t die. Who will succeed you? He is the future of our entire organisation. The family will collapse without a legitimate heir.”

A lot murmur runs through the crowd; Several heads nod in slow, albeit reluctant agreement.

“If I say he dies,” Yakov continues undeterred, “he dies. If I say this entire room dies, not one of you will be alive come tomorrow morning. But I do not say so. Not today, Vitya. You are my heir, even though sometimes I wish you were not. I have trained you this far, and will continue to do so until the day I die. When that day comes it will be you sitting in this chair, and it will be by your hand that your subordinates suffer. But I am still breathing and you have caused me much displeasure. This will not go unpunished.”

Yakov waves his hand and the towering man beside his chair steps forwards, a long handled blade clutched between his fingers. The blade gleams in the light after Yakov mutters a quiet command and Ivan steps forwards, Viktor going tense and rigging in his position on his knees.

“I still want those briefcases,” Yakov continues, lifting a file off his desk. “And I want everyone who has ever dared to go against me dead. Do you understand me, Vitya? I do not care if it is one thousand men, and their blood stains all your shirts. I want them all dead.”

“I understand.”

“Find this A. O person Kuznetsov mentioned. Find his entire family and destroy them. Find every person they have ever spoken to and kill them. Burn their entire city to the ground, and bring him to be in a body bag.”

Blood drips onto the carpet as Ivan pressed the knife to Viktor’s left hand, the blade positioned below the joint of his ring finger. Yakov nods again and the blade digs into Viktor’s flesh, a searing pain setting his entire hand on fire. It’s all Viktor can do to stop himself from screaming out in agony, lips bloody as he bites down hard to swallow any and all sounds. Ivan ignores the rush of blood drenching them both, methodically hacking until the stump of Viktor’s finger falls to the carpet and he tilts sideways, Mila cursing loudly as she lunges forwards to catch him before he hits the floor.

“Do not disappoint me again, Vitya. A Pakhan does not need ten fingers to command an army.”

It’s a clear dismissal. Leaning heavily against Mila, Viktor staggers to his feet and they leave the office, his bloody hand curled up against his chest.

-

“I told you it was a stupid idea to go after Alexei without informing the Pakhan,” Georgi hisses, kneeling at the side of Viktor’s bed with his hands and arms covered in blood, the bottom part of his shirt torn off and pressed against the wound while Mila runs to fetch bandages. “Now, you have one finger less and we are no closer to finding A. O than we were a month ago.”

“You’re the one who killed him before we got any answers, Popovich.” Mila snipes after returning, handing Georgi the first aid kit. In her other hand she’s clutching a half empty bottle of Vodka, offering it to Viktor whenever Georgi touches the raw flesh of his wound.

“He was finished talking and was eyeing the door to make an escape. And I would not have killed him if we had never gone there in the first place. It was a dumb idea. Viktor knows it as well as I do.”

“Are you saying he deserves this? No. Maybe it was a stupid idea, but we did it and you’re the one who shot Kuznetsov without warning. This mess is all your fault—“

“Be quiet, both of you.” Viktor says, gaze slightly unfocused as he stares out the window of his bedroom and across the snowy rooftops of early evening St. Petersburg. His ears are flushed with alcohol, dried tears staining his cheeks. Beside him, curled up under the sheets, the small figure of a Japanese man is sleeping peacefully.

“But Viktor, your finger. This is all Georgi’s fault. It should have been him on the carpet.”

“Shut up, you hag. If you’d just listen—“

The door to the room flies open, crashing against the wall with a loud bang. Yuri looks almost too gleeful when he steps inside, dirty blond hair falling to his shoulders. A cat slinks around his feet, purring loudly.

“Oi, Viktor!” Inviting himself in, he saunters over to the bed, ignoring the venomous glares coming his way. “I hear the old man took off your hand! Can I see? Is there a lot of blood? Nothing fun happens around here anymore, I want to see. Move it, hag.”

Viktor sighs wearily as Yuri shoves Mila to the side, patting the mattress beside him. Yuri steps forwards to take a seat, face falling at the sight of Viktor’s remaining four fingers and intact wrist.

“He only took one?! Bah, where’s the fun in that? Hey, Popovich, I wanna see the finger. Is it all shrivelled up? Oh man, Viktor, be glad you weren’t there when he read that report you left him. I think we’re going to need a new maid. Get it? To clean up the remains of the _old_ maid. I heard him yelling all the way up to my room. Anyway, I’m bored. I want to do something interesting for once. Let me shoot Mila. You don’t need her anymore, right?”

Yuri’s cat hisses angrily as Georgi aims a kick at it, shooing it out of the room. Yuri’s grinning at Viktor like an overexcited child, eyes alight with glee.

“You can shoot Mila after we’ve found what we’re looking for, Yurochka. I promise.”

Yuri looks a little disappointed, giving Viktor’s hand one last snivelling stair before stretching out across the bed only to recoil in horror as its inhabitant stirs in his sleep.

“Hey! Didn’t you tell your whore to leave after you fucked? Disgusting. Can I shoot him instead? He’s a bit small though, isn’t it? Huh.”

Viktor stands up, flexing his remaining fingers with gritted teeth. A sharp pain shoots up his arm and he winces, abandoning the thought of trying to put his gloves back on just yet.

“Don’t wake him, Yuri.”

“Why not? You know the old man doesn’t like it when you bring whores back home. Most of them are filthy, outside and on the inside. Probably like Mila.”

“And what would you know about sex, Yura?” He smiles, ducking to the side to avoid being punched by his overzealous cousin. “Get out, we’re busy.”

“I want to help!” Yuri protests, inching closer to the sleeping figure. He brings his face right up close, the tips of his hair brushing Yuuri’s cheek. “He’s ugly.. I hope you didn’t pay too much for him.”

“Blyad’, get out, Yuri.”

It takes another five minutes of snippy bitching, longing stares at Georgi’s gun and half-hearted threats before Yuri finally leaves with his cat and Viktor slams the door behind him, looking irritated to the high heavens.

“It’s a wonder he still has all his teeth, with the way he keeps calling Yakov an old man.” Mila says dryly, emptying the Vodka bottle herself. “But, I guess he’s his Daddy’s favourite.”

“He’d probably get that demon cat of his to scratch someone’s eyes out first.”

“Enough. Georgi, go out and see if any of your contacts know anything about a man who calls himself A. O. I don’t care what it takes. I want at least one piece of good news before this day is over, and it’s almost dark. Someone has to know something. Mila, contact your friend in Italy, that girl and her brother.”

“She’s not a frie—“

“I don’t care. Make sure her family remembers the arrangement that comes with our friendship. I know you hate him, but she likes you. Use that to your advantage. And get out. I need a break.”

After he’s finally alone Viktor returns to sitting at the edge of the bed, cradling his injured hand against his chest. He’d be far less inclined to forgive his Uncle had he injured his right hand, but even so, grand plans of revenge that’ll never see the light of day keep him company as he sits in silence, lost in thought. A small smile stretches over his lips at the sight of Yuuri sleeping beside him, eyes shut tight, nose wrinkled. It’s an endearing sight that goes straight to his heart and he can’t help but reach out to gently brush Yuuri’s cheek, freezing up as the other man opens eyes before Viktor’s thumb reaches his face.

“Touch me and I’ll kill you.”

-

Yuuri Katsuki is sick and tired of waking up to strange ceilings in unfamiliar rooms. The first time he opens his eyes a slit, barely teetering over the edge of being awake, a pair of bright green eyes and a pale face framed by blond hair stare right back at him. His heart almost giving out, he quickly shuts them gain, feigning a deep sleep until the door closes and he’s fairly sure he’s alone with Viktor - something he never thought he’d consider a good thing.

The second time he opens his eyes Viktor is seconds away from touching his cheek and Yuuri’s hand immediately curls into a tight fist around the small knife he keeps hidden in the depts of his jeans pockets. Thanking whichever God’s responsible for making sure he’s not undressed and still in his own clothes he slowly sits up, raising the weapon directly at Viktor’s chest. It’s nor particularly big or sharp, but it’ll hurt bad enough to give him a few moments head start.

“Touch me, and I’ll kill you.”

Viktor immediately retreats, wide eyes full of confusion.

“Where am I? W-what do you want with me? Why am I here?”

“I can explain,” Viktor begins, matching Yuuri’s English. His accent is thick, his vowels half swallowed. “You are safe now, Yuuri. Just listen—“

_Yuuri? No._

“T-that isn’t my name!” Yuuri stammers, his grip around the knife faltering momentarily as he takes in his surroundings, floored by the large room and the soft double bed they’re sitting on. His heart slams against his chest as he wrecks his brain, trying to remember, frustrated when he ends up with more questions than answers. Viktor sits in patient silence, alternating his gaze between the knife and Yuuri’s face.

“You told me that is your name. I like it better than Kojiro. It fits you.”

“I-It isn’t my name. Where am I? Why am I here? Where is Alexei? I-I have to get back to him..”

“Do you not remember? Hm. I guess that is to be expected. You did hit your head very hard when you fell.”

“I fell.. How long.. How long ago?

“How long have you been here? Two weeks. The doctor said you’d need much time to rest. But I am glad you are awake now, so we can talk. My name is Viktor. Do you remember me?”

 _Of course I remember you,_ he wants to scream. _I’ve been dreaming of killing you for months._ Yuuri blinks at him, panic and overwhelming fear twisting in his gut. The edges of his vision flicker threateningly in the telltale signs of an oncoming panic attack, ice-cold sweat running down his back. Struggling to breathe, Yuuri forces himself to fight through it, to stay awake and alert in the presence of the man he’d set out to murder. His hands are clammy around the handle of the knife, lungs momentarily forgetting how to function as his throat closes up.

Viktor continues to sit in infuriatingly calm silence, watching, waiting, probably on the brink of calling his men to dispose of Yuuri. All he can wish for is a swift and painless death. That’s when he notices the bloody bandage wrapped around Viktor’s hand, the metallic smell of it filling his nostrils, making him gag.

“W-What happened to your hand? Did I..?

Viktor follows Yuuri’s gaze down to his hand, and then he starts laughing. “Oh, this? You think— No, Yuuri. You did not. I had a small disagreement with my Uncle. We don’t always see eye to eye, as they say. This is his way of making sure I don’t mess up again.”

“Did he break your fingers, or what?” Yuuri inches across to the other side of the mattress, putting as much space between them as possible. The thought that Yakov Feltsman would injure his own nephew in such a way is repugnant. Reaching out to where he thinks his glasses are, he manages to grab the frame and slide it back onto his nose. Viktor looks even worse now that he’s in focus; Bruised and bloody, exhaustion etched into his face, the dark bags under his eyes a stinging contrast to his pale skin.

“S-Serves you right. He should have broken both your hands. I hope it hurts.”

Viktor just shakes his head, making an amused noise at Yuuri’s jabbing. He holds out his injured hand and Yuuri notices the way he’s shaking. “May I?”

“W-What? No! D-Don’t touch me, or come any closer! I’ll hurt you even more!”

It occurs to him that he’s not in the best position to threaten a man he knows can kill without blinking an eye, but the words are already out and he bites the inside of his cheek, silently praying Viktor’s in an amicable enough mood.

“I was not going to,” Viktor says, instead averting his gaze to start unwrapping the bandage. It’s already soaked through with blood and Yuuri sees him grit his teeth, tense all over as inch by inch, the bloodied material falls away.

“Here. Look.”

Yuuri drops the knife, the scream of terror that leaves his mouth just about muffled by the hand he presses to his face. Viktor’s hand is covered in blood, the stump of his ring finger looking gruesome and disfigured in the light.

“You wanted to see, no? I think I deserve better for saving your life, rescuing you from that pervert Kuznetsov. Those bruises around your neck are not from a scarf. Yuuri..” He trails off, apparently drunk enough to momentarily forget that he’s missing half a finger, if the dazed smile on his lips is anything to go by. “You are so beautiful. I wonder why you let such filth touch your beautiful body..”

“I—“ Not feeling the need to justify himself, Yuuri simply narrows his eyes, reaching up to hide the bruises around his neck from sight. Viktor sighs dreamily, allowing himself one last look before standing up, vanishing through a door to Yuuri’s left. He can hear running water and a string of Russian swearwords following soon after. With only a few seconds to make a decision, Yuuri launches himself off the bed, almost tripping over his own two feet at the searing pain shooting through his legs. He drops the knife but keeps running, yanking open the door to stumble out into the corridor beyond. A small wooden table decorated with a flower bouquet in an expensive looking vase is the closest thing he can grab, jamming it up against the door and under the door handle. The wood shakes as Yuuri listens to Viktor throw his weight up against it, cursing in Russian, but he doesn’t stay to listen for long.

He gets as far as the top of the stairs at the end of the corridor before he hears voices accompanied by footsteps heading in his direction. Without much space to hide, Yuuri reverses back down the corridor, testing each door before mercifully finding one unlocked. He throws himself into the room beyond without checking if it’s empty mere seconds before the footsteps reach the stairs, trying to muffle his breathing behind his mouth. His heart’s beating so loud in his chest he’s sure it’s bound to give him away.

What seems like an eternity passes before the voices fade away and he dares to open the door again, sticking out his head. Reassured by the lack of yelling or shouting in the vicinity, he closes the door and darts back down the corridor before taking the stairs two steps at a time, the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins enough to keep his battered and bruised body running.

The house, or mansion as it turns out to be, is huge, all dark mahogany walls, lush carpets and expensive looking furniture paired with an occasional oil painting on the wall. Taking corridor after corridor that all look distressingly alike, Yuuri’s almost certain the building is big enough to comfortably house the entirety of the small village his Grandparents lived in. Several times he has to duck behind a table or press himself into a niche to avoid being spotted, the passing footsteps muffled by thick carpet. Most of the house’s occupants seem to be away or busy, leaving him breathless and yearning for freedom.

He turns another corner, then freezes. To his left hangs a large painting of a beautiful winter scenery. The frame is painted gold, decorations artfully carved into the wood. It’s breathtaking, and he’s already passed it once before. Yuuri’s head starts swimming, the pain in his legs worsening with each stumbled step forwards. He makes it as far as the next landing before collapsing, his entire body screaming in protest while his muscles burn as though they’re on fire.

_This is the end._

Even as his mind screams for him to get up, his mind won’t cooperate, the stalled up panic attack finally rushing over him like a wave, pulling him under with an iron tight grip.

_You failed. You’ll never see Mari again._

This time, Yuuri doesn’t hide at the sound of someone yelling in Russian, doesn’t try to run as a pair of footsteps comes closer and closer. He gulps in lungfuls of air like a fish out of water, sitting slumped against the railing like a doll whose strings have been cut. A rush of air and then someone’s kneeling in front of him, blue eyes wide with concern.

“Yuuri?”

_This is how it ends. He’s going to kill you now._

He doesn’t answer, blinking blearily. His glasses have slid halfway off his nose, sweat pouring down the back of his neck. He’s exhausted, dizzy and aching all over. Even as a pair of strong hands hoist him to his feet he doesn’t complain, hanging limp in his captor's grip.

_You failed her._

“Yuuri? Answer me. Drisnya. Georgi, help me pick him up. If someone sees, we’re all dead. Now!”

Viktor’s voice is riddled with concern— No, surely Yuuri’s only imagining that. They’re going to kill  him after all, aren’t they? He remembers the blood running down Viktor’s hand, and Alexei’s lifeless eyes staring at him long after his ears stop ringing. The pleas of the man’s dying breath mingle in with Yuuri’s memory of his sisters crying, his mother’s screaming as the men drag Mari out past the Onsen’s gates. How stupid he’s been, how naive to think that this stupidly crazy, reckless plan of his was ever going to work. How far he’s fallen, and all for nothing. Yuuri suddenly wishes he hadn’t dropped his knife.

Viktor’s hands on his shoulders bring him back to reality, the grip tight, almost painful. He’s reminded of the feeling of Alexei’s hands around his wrists and neck, breath catching in his throat.

“Yuuri?”

“Why do you care about him so much?” Georgi’s sneer is unmistakeable, distaste clear in his voice. Viktor continues to shake his shoulders as Yuuri closes his eyes again, trying to will himself someplace far far away.

“He’s as good as dead anyway, once Yakov finds out about his involvement with Kuznetsov. And you haven’t even told him he’s here? Viktor, do you have a death wish?“

“And how would he find out?” Viktor retorts, finally releasing Yuuri’s shoulders. Whoever’s holding him upright takes a step backwards and Yuuri stumbles, catching his balance against the railing. “I distinctly remember you promising me you wouldn’t tell a soul. Are you backing out on your promise now, Georgi? Yuuri, look at me. Can you stand?”

Lamely, Yuuri shakes his head, and the next thing he knows a fresh pair of arms are wrapped around him, Viktor’s hair tickling his cheek.

“Can you walk? Georgi, help me carry him. He needs more rest.”

“Why… Are you looking after me…?” Yuuri manages to press out, too drained to properly realise or care whose arms he’s in. “You’re just… Going to kill me anyway, right? Just get it over with. Please. If I have to die, I want to die now.”

“You’re right we’re going to kill you.” Georgi says. “If not us, then Yakov. Don’t look at me like that, Viktor, you know I’m right. We don’t know what the whore’s heard or seen, he might be a part of this whole thing.”

“He has a name. Use it.”

Yuuri feels his heart stop the moment his feet leave solid ground, an arm curled beneath his knees while the second supports his shoulders. He opens his eyes again, staring up at Georgi’s unsmiling face. Viktor’s standing to the side, clutching his injured hand.

“Be gentle. He fell down the stairs, remember? My poor Yuuri.”

“Get a move on,” Georgi snaps, readjusting Yuuri’s weight in his arms, as if though he weighed little more than a feather. “He’s heavy, and I’m not ready to die if someone sees us.”

“I knew you cared, somewhere deep down.”

“That just goes to show how _little_ you actually know, Viktor. Move.”

Yuuri closes his eyes as soon as Georgi starts walking, shame and fear burning his cheeks. The further Georgi walks, the further he’s being carried away from freedom, away from what little chance he’d had of surviving. That’s all gone now, with Viktor Nikiforov walking beside him, Yakov Feltsman plotting the death of an entire nation under the same roof. He has little hope of finding his sister even now that he’s so close, too close, to where he wanted to be. He can’t ask her whereabouts without risking exposing his entire family, can’t sneak off to find her with Viktor so hellbent on keeping him locked away until he’s recovered. And then what? Red hot tears pool in his eyes and his heart aches at the realisation of his doom. Months of hard work and detailed planning go up in smoke as the heavy footsteps of the two men echo through the empty house.

Viktor’s bed dips as Georgi ungraceful deposits an unmoving Yuuri on the mattress, stooping to pick up the knife after hitting it with his shoe. Yuuri watches him examine it, trace the Japanese kanji etched into the handle back to Yuuri, and let it disappear in the depths of his pockets, lost forever. Even the comfort of knowing he has an easy, permanent escape route is taken from him. Viktor takes a seat at the edge of the bed, silent even as Yuuri scoots as far away as possible, arms wrapped around himself. Georgi leans against the wall with narrowed eyes, an imposing and unmoving obstacle between Yuuri and the door.

“I think it’s time we had a talk,” Viktor begins after a while, struggling to wrap his bloodied hand in a clean bandage. Georgi offers no help. “Yuuri. If it really was just bad luck that you happened to be in Alexei’s bed after we came for him, then I see no reason why we can not let you go. Provided of course you swear on your life you will repeat to no soul what you’ve seen.. But you seem like a sensible man. Can I trust your promise?”

Yuuri nods hastily, not trusting himself to speak just yet.

“Good. Georgi here doesn’t think I can trust you. But I have shown you nothing but kindness, surely you would not go behind my back and betray me? I don’t like being betrayed. Alexei betrayed me, you see. And now he is dead, I have a finger less, and Georgi is angry at me. I think the last is the worst of the three. He is stubborn. Like a mule.”

He gives up fiddling with the bandage, tying a messy knot before resting his hand back down against his chest to stare at Yuuri.

“Why were you with Alexei?”

“I-I..”

“Speak, whore!” Georgi snaps, angrily kicking at the wall with his foot. “All of our lives are on the line here. Stop crying!”

“I was there by coincidence!” Yuuri finally manages to heave out, tears streaming down his face. He grabs ahold of the bed sheet, knuckles turning white. “I promise! I.. I’ve been seeing him for a few months now. I meet him, we..”

“You fucked? Don’t be ashamed to say it now, whore. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You sleep with disgusting old men for money. I saw the way he touched you in the club. Alexei never had any shame when it came to boys like you.”

“Yes! Yes, we.. We slept together. Several times. He payed me well, I needed the money! What else was I supposed to do? I never knew he was involved in anything bad, I promise. Please. I promise.”

Georgi’s leaning against the edge of the bed now, accusingly pointing at Yuuri. “Why did you go back to him, after the club? He drugged you, gave you enough bruises to make any sane man run far and hard. Why did you go back? I saw the way he treated you. Worse than a dog.”

“He.. He liked me. He said he liked me best. He payed me twice as much than any other client. I need money to live. He had it, he gave it to me. And in return I closed my eyes and let him.. “

“You let him stick his filthy co-“

“Georgi, that’s enough.” Viktor interrupts. He looks far less cheerful now, lips pressed into a thin line. “You’ve asked him plenty of questions.”

“He could be lying.”

“He could be. But he knows that if he is, I will personally take his head off.”

“You’re making a mistake.” Georgi presses on, huffing in frustration.

“Be silent. Yuuri. I will forgive you for threatening me with a knife, if you tell me everything you know about Alexei. I know you speak more Russian than you are letting on. Tell me everything you overheard, and make sure you don’t forget anything. Do you understand?”

“If-If I tell you.. Will you let me go?”

 _“No!”_ Georgi snaps at the same time as Viktor says “ _Yes_.”

“Viktor-“

“If you tell me everything you know about Alexei Kuznetsov and a man with the initials of A.O, I will personally escort you back to your home, and we will not trouble you again. Do we have a deal?”

“I.. Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blyad’ - Fuck (Loose translation)  
> Drisnya - Shit/Crap (Loose translation)
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https:/nikifforov.tumblr.com)?


	5. AUTHOR‘S NOTE

Hi everyone.

As you can see, I haven‘t updated this story in over a year; mainly because I‘ve been busy, but also because I lost inspiration for it halfway through. I didn‘t want to continue writing the story with the way it was going, but I also didn‘t want to retire or delete it. I put quite a lot of work into coming up with the ideas for this fic, and I thought it‘d have been a shame to just give up on it. 

So I‘ve decided to start over from the beginning. It will still be the CATWM!Mafia AU, and the story will remain more or less the same. However I have changed most of Yuuri‘s backstory and his relationship with Viktor, as well as how the story will eventually pan out and end. I‘m really quite excited about this new version, and I hope you‘ll enjoy reading it. The next chapter is the first chapter of the new story, and I‘ll be deleting the old ones within the next few days.

The tags have also been updated, so make sure to check them out, and only read if you‘re comfortable with such content.

I hope you enjoy this new, spiced up and edited version of CATWM, and thank you all for your kudos and kind comments :)


	6. Poputchik

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Алты́нного во́ра ве́шают, а полти́нного че́ствуют - Little thieves are hanged, but great ones escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first official chapter of the new CATWM story! You do not have to read the old ones for the timeline to make sense.

Smoothing down the lapels of his suit with trembling fingers Yuuri lifted his gaze to stare at himself in the mirror. The cheap bathroom light made him look even more gaunt, pale skin taking on a sickly colour in the dirty yellow light. Six years ago he would not have recognised the face staring back at him now; black hair slicked back, a thin layer of makeup hiding any imperfections of his skin, face free of the clumsy blue frame of his glasses. His cheekbones had become more pronounced, jaw squaring out of the boyish curves. But that had been six years ago, a thousand mistakes and bad choices between the old Yuuri and the new. Standing in the shitty bathroom of a motel on the outskirts of a city he felt alien in, the cracked mirror rewarded him with the face of the man he‘d sworn he‘d never allow himself to become.  
  
A soft knock on the door drew Yuuri from his thoughts and he turned in time to see Phichit step into the cramped bathroom dressed in a bespoke suit, every inch of his appearance screaming power and money. The light over the mirror flickered, casting a half-shadow over Phichit‘s face, but Yuuri knew he was smiling. A heavy gold watch sat snug around his right wrist, the display indicating that the time for them to leave had come. Turning off the bathroom light, Yuuri followed him back into the motel room, shoulders and hips bumping against the edge of an ancient looking set of drawers supporting a broken television. The room itself, barely big enough to fit both men standing up, had long since fallen victim to ruin, yellow patches of water-damaged areas staining the thin paper walls. But Yuuri had survived worse, and their rented bedroom would seem like paradise in comparison to where they‘d end up should the evening go south.  
  
Phichit finished packing a sleek silver laptop and a bundle of wires into his black rucksack while Yuuri methodically wiped the last of the surfaces they‘d touched clean of fingerprints. He‘d already vacuumed the carpet and mattress, drowning all sheets and pillowcases in a bathtub full of bleach. Finishing the routine in sporadic silence, both Yuuri and Phichit stepped out of the room for the last time, neither looking back on their way to the car. Out in the open and away from the security of four walls, Yuuri’s hand automatically flitted to the knife tucked away in the depths of the suit’s hidden inner pocket, relief filling him at the feeling of the familiar hilt resting against his skin. The sky bled orange as Phichit reversed out of the motel car park, fingertips tapping out a rhythm against the steering wheel. Even with the ever inevitable sense of doom nagging at his gut, dusk drives with Phichit remained one of the few times his mind relaxed enough to let him breathe. Yuuri had bared his soul to Phichit in this very car. Shared memories of 3am whispers spilling the darkest of secrets and deepest of fears made the worn seats and lingering smell of smoke and gasoline feel more like home to Yuuri than Hasetsu or Detroit ever had.  
  
By the time they reached the estate and joined the queue of cars crawling up the driveway, Yuuri‘s anxiety had returned full force, palms sweating around the cream envelop clutched in his hands. Celestino had forged them himself, skilled fingers and years of experience producing two invitations identical to the one they‘d stolen off the Mayor of Wolcott, a sleepy little town just recently put on the map by the arrival of Senator Elias Wilds. The extravagant party hosted by the Senator and his wife to celebrate their recent purchase of a 1991 built mansion would serve as an ideal cover for Yuuri and Phichit to get in and out undetected. It wasn‘t hard to see why the couple had decided to show off their new property with such a grand event. All smooth white walls and gleaming window panes, the mansion sat on a hill overlooking a lake and the surrounding forest.

Closing his eyes to avoid seeing the throng of guests mingling on the front lawn, Yuuri let his thoughts return to their carefully crafted plan in an attempt to calm himself down. They‘d arrived in Vermont six weeks prior to the party, spending hours refining and polishing every aspect of the mission. Two weeks ago they’d taken over the task of trailing both the Senator and his wife from two of Celestino’s latest recruits. Josephine Wilds had turned out to be as boring and vain as she looked, but her husband had abundantly lived up to his playboy reputation; just not in the way Yuuri had expected. First it’d been the butler, then the driver, then a boy barely older than Phichit clinging to Elias Wild’s arm as the pair stepped out of a private, discreetly advertised strip club two towns over. He’d wanted to back out the moment Celestino’s new orders arrived after Phichit updated him on their findings, but crossing paths with Celestino Cialdini, the one man with true power over Yuuri, remained out of the question. And so the plan changed, and it was Yuuri’s face and hair Phichit fussed over the afternoon before the party.  
  
The second Phichit pulled up to the curb a valet approached with his hand extended for the keys, and Yuuri very suddenly felt himself squashed in line beside Phichit, waiting for the two police officers stationed at the doors to check their invitations. Celestino had predicted security would be lax, an estimation which turned out to be true. Apart from the uniforms at the door, Yuuri couldn’t make out a single other guard mingling amongst the guests. In a rush to display their immense wealth, the new owners of the estate had practically invited the target Celestino put on their backs. Yuuri was all too familiar with couples like the Wilds‘; careless in their effort to shine the brightest. Once inside Phichit disappeared into the crowd without lingering, suit helping him immaculately blend in with the other guests while Yuuri was left to find his way to the bar, desperate for something to occupy his twitching hands. With a flute of cool champagne in his fingers and the contents of another already settling in his stomach, Yuuri eventually reluctantly left the safety of the bar. The miniature microphone resting against his ear broadcasted Phichit’s voice from where he’d set up station in one of the empty bathrooms, and Yuuri had to physically restrain himself from reaching up to fiddle with it. „Cameras are loading... Move a little to the right, and pretend to check out that painting? There‘s one right there.“

Following Phichit’s orders Yuuri stepped to the right, eyes resting on the portrait of the estate’s original owner. A pale fat face stared back down at him, eyes narrowed in a permanent accusatory stare. A small laugh came through the earpiece, followed by the sound of a muttered Thai insult. Raising the glass to his lips without drinking, Yuuri kept his back to the crowd, continuing the pretence of being engrossed by the painted woman. „Phichit? Is everything ok?“ Silence followed his question, then a crackle of static. Nervous, Yuuri started to chew on his lower lip, sliding his free hand into his pocket to stop himself from touching his ear. They’d covered all bases and he’d still be able to pull off most of the job without Phichit’s help, but having Phichit keep an eye on the things Yuuri couldn’t see would help settle the sinking feeling of dread accumulating in his stomach.  
  
„Phichit? Phichit, answer me.“ Further silence followed as more guests crowded into the large living room, Yuuri’s voice faltering as the couple nearest to him turned his way. Phichit still hadn’t responded and he only narrowly managed to escape conversation with the two by quietly excusing himself and slipping past them. Trying not to let his mind get distracted by worrying over all the things that might have befallen Phichit, Yuuri started towards the staircase leading to the second floor, using the height advantage to survey the crowd. He found Josephine Wilds first, dressed in an ankle length flowing blue dress. She looked every part the wealthy trophy wife, down to the polished white teeth and the fake smile, the only thing interesting about her being the diamonds in her ears and around her wrist. He heard Elias Wilds before he saw him; a loud boisterous laugh attached to a stout man sporting a mop of brown hair, dressed in an elegant suit ten times as expensive than any of Yuuri’s possessions. He looked older than in the grainy surveillance footage they‘d printed out and gathered in a folder; paler and wispier, with grey streaks threading through his hair. If they‘d done their research right, all it would take would be one look and the man wouldn‘t be able to resist Yuuri‘s smoulder. Fingers wrapped around the stem of the flute, Yuuri curved the corners of his lips into a delicate smile the moment Wilds looked his way. Immediately he had the man‘s attention and from across the room he stared blatantly, mouth slightly open. Yuuri took a sip of champagne, allowing the tip of his tongue to run against his lower lip. In the living room Wilds excused himself from the guests crowding around him, and Yuuri‘s earpiece crackled with static before Phichit’s voice returned. „Sorry, Yuuri! Their system was tougher to crack than I expected, but I’m in now. How’s it going? Is that Wilds walking towards you? God, he looks like he wants to eat you alive.“

Instead of replying Yuuri waited until the man approached, deliciously playful smile still playing over alcohol wet lips. He could feel the Senator‘s stare, could practically smell the excitement radiating off him. Making him wait until he’d finished his champagne, Yuuri widened his eyes in feigned surprise at seeing him stand so close. „Senator Wilds? I’m so sorry, am I in your way?“  
  
„Not at all.“ The man replied, already far too close for Yuuri’s taste. Barely an hour into the party and already Elias Wilds stank of alcohol and cigarette smoke, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. But that night Yuuri didn‘t exist, and Wilds‘ attention was what he‘d come to win. „I saw you from across the room, and I just had to introduce myself. You look absolutely breathtaking in that suit. Who are you? I‘ve never seen your face before.“  
  
Yuuri had practiced his story well, run it over and over in his head until the memories began to feel more and more like his own. Phichit had quizzed him, moulded and shaped Yuuri into someone entirely different for the night. Gone were the nerves and the anxiety, hidden away behind the façade of a face Yuuri wore well. In another life he might have been an actor, and he had Wilds trapped before a further word left his lips. „You are too kind, Senator Wilds.“ Yuuri all but purred, his Japanese accent coming out thick. „My name is Kyo... Madame Augustine sent me as a housewarming gift.“ Kyo was not a humble man, and Yuuri found himself falling more and more into the role as the alcohol loosened his tongue. „But I can warm other things as well.“  
  
The owner of the strip club hadn‘t been at all surprised when Yuuri and Phichit stepped into the establishment after Wilds had left, asking for details about the man. An astute business woman with a flair for the dramatics, she‘d answered their every question, a knowing smile widening across her lips after Yuuri mentioned they were interested in meeting Wilds alone. She’d confirmed their suspicions concerning Wilds’ taste for men younger than his years, and she’d unsubtly informed them that Yuuri’s pale complexion and features would be an extra turn on. For her discretion they’d paid her well, barely escaping the offer of a free lapdance after Phichit expressed interest in the girl behind the counter. Her business card sat heavy in the pocket of his suit as he retrieved it, flashing Wilds a brief look of sleek black plastic before letting it disappear again. Kyo had won, and Wilds looked like he wanted to undress Yuuri then and there. At the foot of the stairs and throughout the living room the party continued, but the Senator did not take his eyes off Yuuri. Instead he stepped even closer, using his body to shield from view the hand resting low against Yuuri‘s waist. „Madame Augustine sent you? How thoughtful of her.“ Wilds‘ fingers dug hard into Yuuri‘s skin, bodies pressed together. „I best make sure her efforts don‘t go unappreciated, then.“  
  
„I agree.“ Yuuri murmured, pressing hard into the touch. With Wilds‘ grip on his waist he slid his own hand around the Senator‘s back, dipping his fingers into the pocket of the jacket. Gripping cool metal he pulled away, letting the keys vanish up his sleeve without a sound. „This is such a nice house you have. Your bedroom must be just as grand... It‘d be a shame to let it go to waste.“  
  
Elias Wilds was either a very stupid, very reckless, or very drunk man, because he still wouldn‘t let go of Yuuri even as he nodded in rapid agreement. Instead he pulled the smaller man flush against his chest, greedy eyes lingering on Yuuri‘s lips. „You like the house? Then let me give you a tour. Maybe you‘ll find something you‘ll enjoy especially...“ Yuuri could only nod his approval before Wilds started up the stairs, moving faster than Yuuri had expected. Over the earpiece he could hear Phichit mumbling to himself, accompanied by the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. They‘d spent weeks studying the blueprints of the mansion, and although outdated, the plans had given them a good idea of the building‘s layout, including the fastest and safest way to the vault below the garden. Yuuri kept a tight grip around the keys while he followed Wilds through the various rooms on the upper floor, barely listening to the Senator talking. A moment later Phichit said „now“ and Yuuri opened his palm, letting the keys fall out of his hand and into the flowerpot sitting at the window.

Quickly sensing Yuuri‘s disinterest in the 16th century vases, Wilds cut the tour short, bypassing all other rooms to get to the master bedroom. Once inside he poured them both a drink before expectantly turning to Yuuri, suit jacket already undone. „Well, Kyo. Is the bed as grand as you imagined?“ He took a seat at the edge of the mattress, splaying his fingers across the silk sheets decorated with a floral print. Josephine‘s tastes were as refined as they were expensive - they‘d learnt that after the first hour of trailing her on a shopping spree. She also valued her privacy and the blueprints had shown no cameras installed in the bedroom, but Yuuri had been working cons long enough to know better.  
  
„It is. I wonder if it‘s as soft as I‘ve imagined as well... Maybe I‘ll test it out. After the show. This is a party afterall. Let‘s have a little fun first.“ Positioning himself with his back against the door he let a wicked smirk replace the sultry smile, lidded eyes watching Wilds stare at him from across the room. By then Phichit had left the bathroom with his computer and he quietly thanked Yuuri for the keys, wishing him good luck. Unable to respond in like Yuuri let out a breathless little laugh, eyes still fixed on the Senator. „But I have no doubt it‘ll be as incredible as you say.“  
  
„Not sure which of us you‘re talking to,“ came Phichit‘s dry reply, followed by the sound of rustling fabric as he changed into a server‘s uniform. „But if it‘s me, I‘ll take that as a compliment-„ A loud bang followed and Yuuri reacted with a flinch, reaching up to rub his ear without a thought. „Sorry, Yuuri! I‘m so sorry! I wasn‘t looking where I was going and I tripped, and-“ His voice cut off and Yuuri lowered his hand, irritated.  
  
Wilds was still staring at him, but suspicion had taken over. One hand pointed accusingly at Yuuri while the other went to his pocket, as if thought he‘d been expecting it, face flushing as his fingers found only air. „You little shit... Where are my keys?!“ He was on his feet in an instant, taking a few threatening steps towards Yuuri, effectively trapping him back against the door. Yuuri watched as Wilds‘ face went bright red, a vein pulsing in his temple. „Who are you? What the fuck do you want, you piece of shit?!“ The Senator reared back his hand as if to strike and Yuuri instinctively lunged forwards, elbowing him in the side before yanking open the door. A series of violent curses following a loud bang had Yuuri running down the stairs two steps at a time, fingers curling around the handle of his knife. Left through the kitchen, down a set of stairs to the wine cellar, six steps to the right to access the hidden door. Yuuri never went into a job without a backup plan and at least three escape routes - but Phichit was still working in the cellar, preventing Yuuri from making a run for it.  
  
Internally cursing himself he continued onwards down the hallway, rushing past the front door before hitting the stairs leading towards the cellar. The hidden door stood open and he could hear the quiet sound of a drill coming from the room within; Phichit, still hard at work, unaware that he‘d blown the mission for both of them. Slipping a little on the polished floor of the cellar, Yuuri darted forwards, grabbing the laptop and bag Phichit had carelessly left lying on the floor. The sound of drilling grew louder, accompanied by a gentle humming. A stethoscope lay abandoned on the ground at Phichit‘s feet, the small safe door wide open. He had his head deep in the metal container, busy unscrewing the back wall. Celestino had told them to ignore the money and gold stored in the actual safe; what he sent Yuuri and Phichit in to get lay beyond the steel walls. With a final pop the last screw fell to the ground and Phichit straightened up with the back of the safe in his hands, expression falling at the sight of Yuuri gathering up his things. „Yuuri! What are you doing here? You‘re supposed to be with Wilds!“  
  
Yuuri could have strangled him. Instead he shook his head, throwing him the empty briefcase. „No time. We have to get out of here, right now.“  
  
„But I have to put the safe back together, or they‘ll notice someone opened it-„  
  
„There‘s no time, Phichit!“ Yuuri hissed, reaching into the small space behind the safe. A thick wad of cash, Japanese Yen, and a large envelope covered in dust sat leaning against the bricks. Without thinking twice Yuuri threw them into the briefcase, pausing only to pick up the second bag with the laptop and stethoscope. „We‘ve been made. Wilds’ security is going to be here in exactly sixty-eight seconds, and the entire Police Department of Wolcott won‘t be far behind. We have to go.“ Yuuri didn‘t stop to check if Phichit was following him as he ran back up the stairs to the first floor of the mansion, pushing past the few guests who‘d made their way into the kitchen for top-ups. He could hear Wilds yelling for someone to call the police from the upper lounge, accompanied by Josephine‘s high-pitched screech ordering _someone_ to stop the thief. The few that attempted to block his path were too slow and both Yuuri and Phichit managed to make it through the front door and out into the cool night air, pushing and shoving through the still waiting crowd. Yuuri‘s heart ached as they sprinted away from the mansion without hesitation, forced to leave behind the car. They‘d cleaned it out, wiped it down and changed the number plates before driving to the party, but the sentimental value it held hurt more than anything else. Celestino would berate him for being an emotional fool and Phichit would buy him a new one, but a part of Yuuri‘s heart would go down with that car; the last piece of his old life finally destroyed.  
  
He wasn‘t sure how long they kept running nor how far they went, but Yuuri only slowed down to a walk after Phichit‘s pants began to grow heavy and labouring behind him. A narrow alley between two buildings provided them with enough shelter for Phichit to catch his breath, on his knees and coughing after Yuuri angrily yanked the briefcase out of his grip. Opening it he pulled out the large envelope, tearing the paper without hesitation. A thick pile of documents slid out, letters printed in a language Yuuri recognised as Italian. Briefly, he wondered how Celestino could have known they‘d be there. Quickly scanning the pile for anything useful, Yuuri pulled a small flip phone out of his pocket, calling the only saved number. He let it ring for a good two minutes before someone picked up and Yuuri cleared his throat, shaking with exhaustion and anger.  
  
„It‘s me. We have the documents and the cash, like you said.“  
  
„Then why are you calling me?“ Celestino questioned, English heavy with an Italian accent. Yuuri could hear music and laughter in the background; undoubtedly Celestino had found a good many ways with which to distract himself while Yuuri and Phichit planned and carried out the job. „You know I hate it when you call me for no reason.“  
  
„I‘m calling because we have a problem. We were made. We got out, but it‘s not safe to travel. You won‘t get the documents any time soon.“  
  
Silence followed Yuuri’s words, the background music on Celestino‘s side fading. When he spoke again it had quieted down completely, and Yuuri felt a chill run down his spine at the tone of Celestino’s voice. „That makes me very angry, Yuuri. You know how badly I want those documents. What happened?“  
  
„Your prodigy blew it.“ Yuuri spat, staring down at Phichit still kneeling on the ground. Despite these harsh words he liked Phichit more than any of the other recruits Celestino was training to do his dirty business, the Thai hacker the closest thing Yuuri had ever had to a friend. They got on well, despite Phichit‘s insistence on seeing Yuuri as his own personal mentor, and it was not without discomfort that Yuuri continued reporting. „He blew up my ear and Wilds saw me reach up. He had to leave the safe open, so they‘ll know we took something.“  
  
„It sounds to me like you both made a mistake, Katsuki. This was Phichit‘s first job, I warned you to keep an eye on him.“ The threat was clear in his words, Celestino‘s pointed displeasure not something Yuuri enjoyed being the receiving end of. He‘d tried to keep Phichit on a tight leash, but Wilds‘ preference of younger men had changed the game. He‘d put his faith in someone else, and it had backfired miserably once again. „But what‘s done is done. You know what to do. See to it that I get my documents the moment you rejoin the living.“ The call ended before Yuuri could reply and slowly he lowered the phone, gripping it with such force the lid snapped clean off. Phichit squeaked in surprise when Yuuri dropped the remnants of the phone, crushing it to junk beneath his heel.  
  
„What did he say...?“  
  
„He‘s not happy.“ Returning the documents and cash to the briefcase, Yuuri snapped it shut, dropping the laptop bag into Phichit‘s lap. Police sirens wailed in the distance while Phichit changed out of the server‘s uniform and Yuuri shrugged off his suit jacket, replacing it with the raincoat waiting folded up beside the laptop. He tousled his hair and slid on his glasses, used contacts dropping to the filthy ground. With the briefcase tucked beneath his coat Yuuri stepped back out onto the pavement and Phichit followed, mournfully hugging onto the laptop bag. Sticking close together, Yuuri bent his head to pass on Celestino‘s instructions. At the next crossroads he continued onwards while Phichit took a right turn, neither of them looking back as the town of Wolcott slipped into darkness.  
  
—  
  
The moment Yuuri stepped into Celestino‘s house in Detroit, he was greeted with curious stares and hushed whispers. The two months in hiding had him looking worse for wear; he‘d lost weight, smashed and fixed his glasses with sellotape, and thoroughly worn out the only shirt he‘d had with him the entire time. Six pairs of eyes followed him as Yuuri stepped through the large living room, brushing past a group of unfamiliar faces. Celestino must have recruited them during his time out and told them to be there when Yuuri returned, to remind him how easily replaceable he remained. Ignoring the blatant stares he continued down the hall, the leather briefcase tucked under his arm. Celestino’s office door was closed when Yuuri approached it, and he rapped his knuckles against the wood before stepping back to wait. Idly he wondered if Phichit had arrived already. Despite the age gap and the fact that Phichit had been in Detroit almost three years already before Yuuri arrived, he’d been a slow learner, only showing progress once Yuuri had agreed to coach him on the side. If not for Yuuri, Celestino would have returned Phichit to the prostitution ring from whence he rescued him. The new recruits would leave a longer lasting impression on Phichit than they had on Yuuri.  
  
The door opened fifteen minutes later and Celestino emerged with an elderly looking man with shoulder length grey hair and a stone cold expression. They shook hands and the man left, brushing past Yuuri without so much as a glance downwards. Used to Celestino‘s guests’ unpleasantries, he stepped into the office without a challenge. The room hadn’t changed much during Yuuri’s absence, nor had the man sitting behind the desk. Grey hair sat tied back in a ponytail, tanned skin contrasting with the all-white suit. As custom, Yuuri remained standing until Celestino invited him to take a seat. The invitation did not come. Instead, Yuuri was subjected to the lengthiest, deadliest, and most unwavering look of distaste he’d ever seen. He didn’t blink or move a muscle, struggling to fight against the urge to fiddle. It took a lot to make Yuuri nervous or uncomfortable, but Celestino had raised him, and there was nothing Yuuri could hide from the man.  
  
The silence lasted long, stagnant in the room until Celestino broke it, leaning back in his Italian designer desk chair. Three long fingers tapped against the matching pine wood desk, voice rough and deep. „So you’ve decided to rejoin us, Yuuri. How thoughtful of you. Where are my documents?“ Yuuri reached out to hand him the envelope, not flinching as Celestino snatched it from his fingers. Silence resumed as Yuuri watched his boss flip through the pages, occasionally muttering or nodding to himself. It was a childish show of dominance and Yuuri knew Celestino well enough to know this wouldn’t be the last he heard of the Wolcott failure. After a while Celestino looked up, lips pressed into a thin line. „Is this all you found?“  
  
„Yes.“ Yuuri said, standing his ground. „Apart from this.“ Producing the wad of Yen he’d found alongside the documents Yuuri made to hand them over when Celestino shook his head, piling up the documents before locking them into one of the desk drawers.  
  
„Keep them, Katsuki. People like you have more use for Yen than I do.“  
  
„...Thank you.“  
  
Finishing locking up the desk Celestino stood up, fixing Yuuri with another long, hard stare. Beyond the door he could hear Phichit’s voice mixing in with Sara’s laughter and Mickey’s bark of anger. Still alive for now, and the foreseeable future. No one in their right mind would speak to a man branded by Celestino’s anger. The looming death threat over Phichit’s head had cleared, but Yuuri’s still remained. But Celestino made no move for his gun. Instead he cracked a smile anyone else but Yuuri might have believed to be real. „I’m not happy, Katsuki. But you brought me what I wanted, so I’ll forget about it for now. We have more pressing issues to look forward to. I want both you and Phichit here tonight. You will be eating dinner with us, and you will help me entertain our guests while we smooth out the last details of a deal that will benefit me greatly. Do you have any questions?“  
  
„No, Sir.“  
  
„You don’t want to know who’s coming?“  
  
„I’ll find out once they’re here.“ Almost too tired to function, Yuuri had little patience for Celestino’s games. Silently he yearned for his bed, for a warm shower, for proper food. Undoubtedly the dinner that night would be a grand event, something he always had to mentally prepare himself for. Celestino was a greedy man, and a deal that he admitted would benefit him greatly, was not one Yuuri wanted to ruin with bad manners and poor dinner etiquette. When Celestino didn’t respond however, it clicked. „Unless you want me to be especially kind to them when they arrive... Am I distracting or impressing?“  
  
„Clever boy. You will be doing both. My guest is bringing his son, who also happens to be next in line for his Empire. Foreigners, but still important enough to be considered a threat to us.“ _To my money_ . „I don’t want the brat ruining things for me the moment his old man dies. See to it that he’s too distracted to listen, and so impressed by our hospitality that his future visits will revolve solely around good food and expensive wine.“  
  
So Kyo would be making another appearance. Yuuri could only hope this stranger’s son would be as taken with him as Elias Wilds was. Watching Celestino return to his work, Yuuri dismissed himself, stepping out of the office. Once the door shut firmly behind him, he let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding, eyes sore with exhaustion. He wanted nothing more than to return to his shabby little apartment by the river, to shower and sleep the rest of the day away. But he’d been charged with Phichit before the job, and it felt only right that Yuuri would check up on him afterwards. Following the sound of laughter Yuuri stepped into the kitchen to find Phichit and Sara sitting on the counter throwing grapes at Mickey, whose face was red with embarrassment as he struggled to catch the flying fruit. At the sight of Yuuri he immediately straightened up, only to be hit square in the face with a grape. Phichit laughed gleefully, ignoring the quiet swears coming from the corner. At the sight of Yuuri however, he went quiet.  
  
„You’re still alive, then.“ Yuuri said, looking at Sara in a way which had her scrambling to leave the room with her brother in tow. „I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again.“  
  
Phichit shrugged a little, rubbing the back of his neck with the back of his hand. The past months hadn’t been kind to him either. The bags under his eyes seemed a little deeper, his hair had grown shaggier and his cheeks had a hollow look to them. Momentarily Yuuri felt a flash of guilt. He‘d been responsible for Phichit during his first job, and he‘d fucked it up enough for Phichit to have to experience Celestino‘s „Playing Dead“ rule; a harsh security measure to ensure his location and business were never found by foes. Celestino had a generous streak, proven time and time again when he took in new recruits, gave them a new family and a purpose in life, but he was also greedy, and loyalty until death was the one of the things he demanded from his subordinates. In Phichit’s case, he’d never be able to repay Celestino for saving his life. „Me neither, honestly. When I came back here he was so angry. I thought he’d kill me for sure. But then I told him you’d taken the documents and you’d bring them, and he said he’d let me get away with fucking up on my first job.“ Yuuri had been royally thrown under the bus, but he couldn‘t find it in himself to be angry. Instead, he offered Phichit a wry smile, and informed him of Celestino’s dinner plans for the both of them.

The rest of the day passed as quickly as Yuuri knew it would, and all too soon did he find himself beside Celestino and Phichit, standing at the foot of the steps leading to the house as a sleek silver car pulled up the driveway. Yuuri‘s eyes scanned the vehicle, his interest piqued. The number plate was American, the windows tinted. Too clean to be a rental car, but not the sort you‘d see on the streets of Detroit. Celestino had mentioned their guests were foreign, and slowly Yuuri was beginning to wonder just how far they’d come to meet him. The car stopped and the driver exited, stepping to the side to hold open the door. A tall man in a bespoke suit got out of the car, smoothing down his jacket as he straightened up. Slicked back blond hair and piercing blue eyes greeted Yuuri, angular cheekbones and a thin nose and lips making him look more snake-like than human. A second person got out and Yuuri recognised the man from that afternoon. He wore the same dark hat and grumpy expression, paired with an ankle long black coat. Celestino stepped forward with an award winning smile, hand stretched out for them to shake. While the three men greeted each other in low voices, a third figure climbed out of the car. Yuuri craned his neck a little, but Celestino had already begun inviting his guests inside, beckoning for Phichit and Yuuri to follow.  
  
„It is an honour that you have made this journey just to see me,“ Celestino boomed, leading the way to the dining room he only unlocked for important guests. He‘d neatened up his usually messy ponytail and dug out his finest dinner jacket, a white silk scarf nestled around his neck. „You must be starving. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Drinks are on their way.“ He sat down across the table from the two men, beckoning for them to do the same. Yuuri just managed to stop Phichit from taking a seat beside Celestino, giving his jacket a sharp tug. „These are two of my best associates. Kyo Miyazaki, and Thahan Prin. They may be young, but I assure you, America offers none finer nor more skilled.“ While he spoke the third figure entered the room, quietly pulling out a chair to sit down. Yuuri stared. Hair so bright it looked almost silver sat in a neat cut upon his head, a dark blue suit sitting snug around his shoulders. He had the same piercing blue eyes as the first man, sharp cheekbones and an elegant jawline. Only a fool would have missed the similarities between the two of them. „Ah!“ Celestino spoke up, making Yuuri jump a little. „Speaking of young talent. This must be your son.“  
  
„Yes.“ The first man spoke, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else than there. Only after a maid brought out a tray of drinks and he watched Celestino take a sip of the same Whiskey did he relax a fraction. „This is Viktor. My son, and my heir. He will be joining us during our discussions. I want him to learn from the best.“  
  
„Of course, of course! I’d be honoured. In fact, Kyo here will be joining us as well. He is my best man, and makes for most excellent company. Kyo, take a seat. Thahan, you may leave us now.“  
  
Surprised at the sudden change of plan Yuuri pulled out the chair beside Celestino as Phichit left the room. Neither of the men spared him a look and Viktor simply glanced briefly in his direction before turning away. The first man started to speak again, accent thick, and it clicked in Yuuri‘s head. Russian. They were Russian. He’d overheard a conversation between Celestino and Mickey a few months prior, nursing a vicious cold and on the hunt for painkillers. The door to the office had been ajar and Yuuri hadn’t been able to help himself. They’d been speaking in hushed voices and all Yuuri had been able to make out had been a Slavic sounding name. Celestino often entertained various guests or politicians, and he hadn‘t given it any further thought.

As if able to read Yuuri’s mind Celestino turned to him, a large hand resting on his shoulder. The three Russians were speaking softly amongst themselves when he leaned in closer, and Yuuri could smell the Whiskey on his breath. „That’s Ilya Nikiforov. His family is one of the largest, most influential within the Russian Bratva. He’s a snake of a man, and he drives a hard bargain, but he’s a good ally to have. You’ve met his son. Don’t ask where the mother is. Some say he’s a bastard, the product of an affair with a whore. She’s not important. The one on the right is Yakov Feltsman, Ilya’s Uncle, and his link to the US. You want to get to Ilya, you go through Feltsman. A hard man to please, but the rewards are worth it.“ Celestino straightened up again and the Russians ceased their discussion. A moment later the doors opened and a flurry of maids hurried into the dining room carrying steaming plates and bowls of food. Soon the table sat laden with dishes, and Celestino graciously allowed his guests to help themselves first before he and Yuuri took their share. After the first bite Yuuri realised he was hungrier than he’d thought, and he spent most of the meal focused on the food while occasionally listening in on the conversation. Both Yakov and Ilya were in deep conversation with Celestino, but Viktor remained mostly quiet. Only once did he try to strike up conversation with him, and Viktor replied in Russian in the unmistakable tone Yuuri knew all too well; disdain. Celestino had warned him, right before the car pulled up, that he’d have to work hard to get Viktor’s attention.

The rest of the dinner flew by without Yuuri becoming any more successful at engaging with Viktor. Celestino had noticed the deep interest with which Viktor seemed to listen to their conversation as he repeatedly kicked Yuuri‘s foot under the table. After Viktor went as far as to offer his own input, Celestino hastily changed the subject. After the last plate had been cleared away, they emigrated to the sitting room where Celestino put on a CD and poured another round of Whiskey. Viktor sat in an armchair beside his father and uncle, leaving Yuuri to linger beside Celestino. The atmosphere remained tense despite Celestino‘s attempts at breaking the ice, and Ilya seemed only interested in discussing business. Yuuri hadn’t seen him acknowledge his son’s presence once throughout the entire evening, sitting and talking as if though Viktor wasn’t there. He couldn’t help but pity him for being dragged along just for show. Of course Ilya would want everyone to know his son would make a suitable replacement one day. It was a show of power, a promise that the Nikiforov Family would continue to be a force to be reckoned with for years to come. With Celestino having no heirs of his own to show he’d grabbed Yuuri, who’d let it happen without protest. Celestino had been more of a father to him than Yuuri’s biological one had, and his love and loyalty to the man ran deep.  
  
Celestino and Ilya disappeared into Celestino’s office after the Russian Pakhan had insisted on discussing the finer details in privacy. Yuuri hadn‘t missed the way Viktor looked almost disappointed at being left out of the discussion, but Yakov grunted something in Russian which had him relaxing immediately. Both of them continued to ignore Yuuri throughout the duration of Celestino’s absence, and Yuuri could feel himself getting restless. He could see it quite clear in their faces what they thought of him, and while Yuuri was not a vain man, being underestimated was something he despised. He’d fought and worked hard to climb through the ranks of Celestino’s organisation. He’d clawed his way into many a business meeting, smooth talked himself into many a person’s good graces. Smaller stature aside, Yuuri was as good as any of them. Viktor and Yakov’s dismissal of all he’d achieved stung worse than any wound. He’d been underestimated too many times before.  
  
When Celestino and Ilya returned, the look on the Italian’s face was enough to tell Yuuri that their discussions had gone well. Well enough for Celestino to gift the Pakhan with five bottles of Whiskey each more expensive than the mansion he lived in. A show of good nature, Celestino called it - a bribe, Yuuri knew. The two of them shook hands, and then, to Yuuri’s surprise, Ilya turned to him. Swallowing dryly Yuuri reached out to shake the man’s hand, deft fingers slipping the expensive Russian watch off his wrist. Ilya didn’t notice. “Your mentor is a good man.” Accent heavy with long vowels, the words caught Yuuri entirely off guard. Throughout the entire evening Ilya had seemed to think himself above the likes of Celestino Cialdini. But there he stood, firm handshake and deep voice radiating the sort of power Yuuri knew Celestino could only dream of. Showmanship was his talent, most of his fear mongering over exaggerated acting. But Ilya’s power was in his blood, his entire being radiating authority. “And he is smart. You would do well to learn all you can from him. Maybe someday in the future, we will be making business deals.”  
  
“I’d like that very much.” He countered, the watch heavy in his pocket. Ilya nodded then turned to bid Celestino farewell. Yakov gave Yuuri a single pat on the shoulder before disappearing to fetch their driver. Viktor however also shook Yuuri’s hand, his expression suddenly curious as they stared at each other. Yuuri squeezed his hand and Viktor returned the pressure, none the wiser as Yuuri slid a sleek metal ring off his finger.  
  
“It was nice to meet you... Kyo Miyazaki. Perhaps our paths will cross again in the future.”  
  
“Perhaps they will.” Yuuri echoed, the ring joining the watch in his jacket pocket. Viktor wouldn’t miss it. His dark blue suit made Yuuri’s dinner jacket look almost shabby in comparison, Yuuri’s cheeks flushing hotly as Viktor’s gaze found the crack in his glasses and the mess of sellotape holding the frame together. After a few more seconds of staring Viktor released Yuuri’s hand and left to join his father by the front door. Only after it closed behind them did Yuuri‘s knees buckle, sinking back into the armchair by the window. Nervous anxiety bubbled in his gut as he waited for the sound of the waiting car to fade. Finally it did and Yuuri dipped his hand into his pocket to pull out the ring. It seemed almost too simple to belong to the heir of the Nikiforov Bratva. Plain silver and light in his hands, Yuuri almost missed the inscription engraved in the metal in neat handwriting. He brought it up to his eyes, squinting at the foreign language.  
  
_„Бережёного Бог бережёт“_

Russian. He’d have to dig out his dictionary later on. The watch was far more interesting to admire, and when he turned it over he noticed a similar set of letters engraved onto the back. Too busy trying to decipher the letters, he only realised the car had returned and the sitting room door had been thrown open when he heard two angry voices. Looking up, Yuuri found himself staring at Ilya Nikiforov, a sleek black gun pointed directly at Yuuri’s forehead. Beside him Yakov had his hand on his nephew’s shoulder and was urgently whispering to him in Russian, but Ilya looked like he wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger. Celestino appeared behind Yuuri, his own weapon resting loosely against his thigh. “What is the meaning of this?! You come into my home and draw a gun on my best man? Is this the Russian way to thank your hosts?!”  
  
Ilya’s hand shook but he didn’t lower the gun. Pure, unadulterated rage sat on his face, thin lips pressed into a tight line. Behind them Viktor stepped back into the room, absentmindedly rubbing the spot where the ring had sat. In contrast to his father he didn’t look upset at all. He seemed more amused than annoyed. “It seems you have something that belongs to me, Kyo Miyazaki. Can I have it back?” Yuuri reached out to hand him the ring and Viktor slid it back onto his finger, pressing a small kiss to the metal band. Yakov had finally managed to talk Ilya into lowering the gun, but he still looked like he might strangle Yuuri with his bare hands.  
  
“Ilya, he is just a boy.” Yakov rumbled, taking the gun off his nephew before turning to Celestino with a deep scowl. “If you invited us here to steal from my nephew, you should have made sure to take our weapons as well. I always knew you were just a showman, Cialdini, but you have sunk lower than any of us expected. Your father would be disappointed in you.”  
  
“My father would be disappointed that I let the Snake of the Bratva into my home.“ Celestino spat, nostrils flaring angrily. „So the rumours are true. Just what I expected from a failed Soviet experiment.”  
  
Yakov’s eyes grew dark but he didn’t reply. Instead he held out his hand for the watch. Yuuri stood up, a defiant expression on his face as he dropped it into the outstretched hand. „You shouldn‘t have acted like you‘re better than us. I could have taken much, much more.“

Yakov returned the watch to Ilya who stormed out of the building once it returned to his wrist, yelling at the driver in angry Russian. Viktor remained at Yakov’s side and Yuuri could feel his inquisitive gaze, blue eyes not leaving his face even as Yuuri looked up to meet them. Viktor looked fascinated, as if though Yuuri were some kind of an exotic animal on display at a zoo. Gone was the cold, condescending demeanour. Yakov looked less thrilled, but he kept his weapon to himself, choosing instead to fix Yuuri with an angry stare.  
  
“In Russia you would have been killed on the spot for stealing from the Pakhan. I will let you live only this once, because your mentor’s father would not want me ruining this carpet with your worthless blood. But you have made a grave mistake. You will never be welcome in our home, or our country-“  
  
“I want him to come back with us.” Viktor interrupted, tearing his gaze away from Yuuri with great effort. The room went silent, and Yuuri could have sworn his heart stopped. “I think he could be useful to help solve the, ah, little problem we are having. Consider it a loan. You give me Kyo, and I will make sure my father does not turn his back on your deal. I know how much it means to you.”  
  
Celestino barked out a laugh and Yuuri flinched violently as the grip on his shoulder tightened painfully. Surely Viktor was not naive enough to think Celestino would even consider letting Yuuri go to Russia. Aside from the fact that Ilya would shoot him on the spot, Yuuri wasn’t sure he’d even survive long enough to meet Viktor again. Yakov must have shared the sentiment, looking like he wanted to slap the ridiculous idea right out of Viktor’s head.  
  
“Vitya... This is not a good idea. He does not belong with us. We do not bring foreigners into our home.”  
  
“We need this deal, and you know it. Father knows it as well.” Ignoring Yakov’s protests he turned back to Yuuri, a small smile playing over his lips. Yuuri couldn’t blame him for looking so gleeful. He must have been listening well during dinner, because Celestino immediately released Yuuri and moved to shake Viktor’s hand.  
  
“He would be happy to assist you in any way possible. Right, Yuuri?“

„I’ll think about it.“

Viktor had played him like a fiddle, and yet Celestino remained too greedy to sense the danger. Apparently the thought of having Ilya owe him a favour was too tempting to even consider putting Yuuri‘s safety first. Yuuri had no doubt Viktor would make an even stronger Pakhan than his father one day, but the invisible noose around his neck left him doubting if he’d be alive long enough to witness it. Satisfied with Yuuri’s promise to consider the offer Yakov and Viktor left soon after, and Celestino abandoned Yuuri in favour of his office, no doubt planning on drinking himself into a stupor to celebrate their alliance with Ilya Nikiforov. He’d scored high, and Yuuri’s life was a price he was willing to pay.

Yuuri remained seated in the armchair long after the final recruit went to bed, the house sitting in total darkness around him. After kicking off his shoes he pulled up his feet, arms wrapping around his knees while he stared out of the window and out across the city. Night had fallen and Detroit burned bright with a thousand lights as a different crowd came out to play. His memories of Japan and Hasetsu were blurry, fading fast ever since he‘d started calling Detroit his home. But the thought of Hasetsu brought on an entire cartload of painful memories he preferred not to think about, and Yuuri tried to distract himself by thinking about Viktor. He‘d looked every part a powerful Pakhan, but where Ilya had used his rage to get what he wanted, Viktor had chosen a more diplomatic approach. Celestino had been right. Yuuri knew, without a doubt in his mind, that he would not survive long with Viktor Nikiforov as his enemy.

Yuuri had never been to Europe, with Celestino preferring to keep him close. Russia was a daunting thought, one he might never have considered before meeting Viktor. But something had changed within him, like a switch had finally been activated. Viktor was fascinating, and he seemed to think the same of Yuuri. He held true power at his fingertips, making Celestino‘s thin threats look like childsplay in comparison. Digging out his phone, Yuuri opened a fresh tab on Google, searching for connecting flights leaving the following week.

Viktor Nikiforov seemed like a man worth dying for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Бережёного Бог бережёт - The Lord helps those who help themselves


End file.
